*Reborn in Shadows*

Chapter 1: The Weight of Silence

I've always wondered what it would be like to be heard. Truly heard. Not the polite nodding, the half-hearted smiles, or the empty reassurances that make up the background noise of a busy life. I mean really heard, in a way that makes you feel like you matter, like you exist beyond your usefulness. But my world was a cacophony of other people's needs, where my voice was a whisper drowned in the roar of everyone else's demands.

Growing up, I learned quickly that I wasn't the priority. My parents—successful, ambitious, and always on the move—had little time for a daughter who wasn't already a shining star in their universe. I did what I could to earn their attention, but it always felt like I was running on a treadmill, moving faster and faster but getting nowhere. My grades were impeccable, and I danced until my feet bled, desperate to be seen. And yet, all I got in return was a pat on the head, an absent-minded "Good job," before they returned to their phones, their laptops, their endless string of meetings.

At home, the silence was heavy. My grandmother was the only one who seemed to notice me, but not in the way I wanted. She was old and bitter, her love long ago twisted into something sharp and cruel. Her hands, once gentle, now held the sting of a belt or the slap of a hand. I never knew what would set her off—maybe it was the way I left my shoes in the hallway, or the way I chewed my food too loudly. But whatever it was, I learned to stay out of her way, to blend into the background and hope she wouldn't find me.

And yet, I always had a smile on my face. It was easier that way, to hide behind a mask of cheerfulness. People liked me better when I smiled, when I pretended that everything was okay. And so, I became the one everyone came to when they needed help, when they needed someone to listen. Even the adults, who should have been the ones guiding me, confided in me, unloading their burdens like I was some sort of emotional dumping ground. I listened, gave them advice, and tried to make them feel better, even when I felt like I was drowning in my own misery.

"You're so mature for your age," they would say, their voices tinged with awe and a hint of envy. "You're like an old soul in a young body. It's like talking to a therapist."

But then, they would laugh, a sharp, dismissive sound that always left me feeling hollow. "But don't forget, you're still just a kid. You should be out having fun, not worrying about all this adult stuff. Lighten up a bit, Andrea."

Lighten up. As if I could just flick a switch and stop feeling everything so deeply, stop caring so much. They didn't see how their words cut into me, how their casual dismissal of my pain made me feel even more isolated. How could I be a kid when I had never been allowed to be one? I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, and no one seemed to notice that it was crushing me.