Cote: Elite in Action

SS: Kushida Kikyou - Falling Masks

I hate myself. It's not something I say lightly; it's a feeling that has accompanied me, growing and persistent, like a shadow I can't shake off. At first, it was just silent comparisons, quick glances at other people: girls who were prettier, smarter, more confident. Gradually, those comparisons left marks on me, whispering in my ear that I wasn't enough, that I always lacked something, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me.

I knew, deep down, that it wasn't good to compare myself to others. Who can win in a game where the goal always seems unattainable? But even knowing this, envy trapped me. And so, the more I grew, the more I sank into that insidious idea that, for some reason, I wasn't worthy of what I desired. I looked at the world and found it unfair; I asked, almost in anger, why I hadn't been born prettier, smarter... better.

Over time, I started to think that the world wasn't fair. I saw girls who, at first glance, didn't seem to have great physical attributes, but walked with a confidence that I envied. I wondered if perhaps they looked at me with the same eyes with which I looked at others, thinking that I had something they desired. Maybe, to someone else, I could seem privileged. Perhaps someone, at some point, had looked at me wishing to have something I possessed. But knowing this didn't lighten my burden. On the contrary, it made the loneliness and frustration I felt more evident.

Days and months passed without stopping, and suddenly, I felt that my presence no longer stood out as before. I was starting to be forgotten, erased from the picture. I had been someone everyone noticed: friends, acquaintances, adults... everyone paid attention to me. I was used to that, like someone who gets accustomed to receiving their daily ration of sweets. But now, that flow of attention diminished day by day, until it was almost gone. It was painful. I felt like life was taking away an important part of who I was, of what once defined me.

Realizing that I couldn't compete in beauty or intelligence, I decided to transform myself. If I couldn't be more beautiful, at least I could be kinder, more sociable, more loved. So, I changed myself. I started to act differently: adopting a sweet attitude, approaching everyone with a smile, even those my old self would never have looked at. By doing this, I achieved what I was looking for: the attention and acceptance of everyone. I became someone trustworthy, that person everyone wanted close, that everyone needed to feel understood and listened to. I knew everything about everyone, and they trusted me without reservation.

But there was a price. Acting this way, having this "facade" that wasn't really me, was exhausting. Many times I didn't want to talk, but I smiled and listened. I didn't want to hear more secrets, more confidences that didn't interest me, but I nodded and paid attention. I deprived myself of eating freely to maintain a "perfect" figure. I restricted myself from doing things I once loved, simply to not lose the image I had built.

In a way, I had become a version of myself that seemed to have everything under control, but deep down, every smile, every kind gesture, every sacrifice fed the feeling of emptiness. And then, every time I was alone, that cold and heartbreaking question returned: who am I, really?

What was my true personality? I had spent so much time perfecting this facade that I forgot who I really was; I forgot my true self. The nights became endless, trapped in unanswered questions, realizing that the "perfect" image I had built was devouring every authentic part of me. But I didn't have time to find out who I really was. I had to keep feeding that character, to be the "angel" that everyone loved and adored. I spent nights studying the likes of everyone around me, memorizing every detail, every preference, so they would feel that I cared deeply about them... even if that wasn't true. I consumed myself in a role that pushed me further away, day by day, from who I was.

In the end, so much sacrifice, so much repression, exploded. All the accumulated stress finally broke me, and the tension of that perfect life crumbled. It was an incident at school, a disaster of which I can barely remember details clearly, as if my mind refused to accept what I did. Do I regret causing that? I don't know. I don't even know what I want. At that moment, good or evil lost their meaning; all I felt was a devastating emptiness consuming me, a cold indifference clinging to my chest.