My name is Arinelle.

Society doesn’t see me as beautiful. I am a brown-skinned girl of short height, weighing 75 kg. When I smile, I don’t look good — that’s what they say — because I have gaps in my teeth. My eyes are not ocean blue; they are dark, dark brown, which only shine if light falls on them. Otherwise, they remain unnoticed. My hair is not long, not thick, nothing special.

I am an international student. I study, I work, I pay my bills. But the main things in life — sending money home, paying tuition fees, eating healthy food — always feel like a struggle against rent and expenses. My father is not rich; we belong to a middle-class family.

My friends? Just one girl and her big sister.

My colleagues? Yes, I keep good relations.

My housemates? They are Nepalese. In 1.5 years, I changed homes five times, and every time I tried my best to fit in… but no matter how much I gave, nobody really reciprocated.

Back in India, I didn’t have many friends either. I grew up in a strict family. I was always the child who carried heartbreak silently. Always desired… but never chosen. People used my feelings, my trust, even my body. Their harsh, toxic words still echo inside me.

And now, I am in love. With a man seventeen years older than me. Married. With a six-year-old child. He loved me back… but he is my uncle. My father would never accept this. So I must keep it a secret from everyone, even from myself.

When I was a kid, I never knew I was traumatized. I never knew that depression and anxiety were quietly shaping me. I thought if I smiled enough, nobody would see through me. It worked. My mother often complained about me smiling too much, never realizing maybe I needed therapy, maybe I wasn’t well. But those days are gone now.

My childhood stories could traumatize you too. I will tell them slowly, piece by piece. My dating life, my relationships, my struggles with my parents — all shaped me into someone I never wished to become.

I am 22 years old now. In two months, I’ll be 23. And one thing I can say for sure: I didn’t get what I wanted. I couldn’t become the person I dreamed to be. And now I am scared… scared that maybe I will fail in life as well.

Today, I woke up at 9:30 am, took a shower, dressed up, and went to work. After 3:30 pm, I started another job from 5 pm to 10 pm. Finally, I came home. In between, I ate my lunch. There was nothing wrong with today. Nothing sad.

And yet… the tears keep slipping down my cheeks as I type.

Why?

I don’t have an answer. Do you?

If you’re reading this, just know: I am one in a billion girls. Not special. Nobody knows me. I always wanted to earn respect… but instead, I am stuck in a loop, unable to escape.

Will I try to rise?

Or will I be lost forever?

Most of my earliest memories are like smudged colors on a canvas—blurred, hazy, uncertain. Yet a few stand out, painted so vividly in my mind that even now they glow with sharp detail.

They said I was a mischievous child, always running, always crying, loud enough to earn the title of the queen of cry. A black-skinned baby in the lap of a fair-skinned mother, I was often the subject of whispers, gossip, and mocking laughter in a place where neighbors and relatives never spared anyone from judgment.

I don’t recall much about what kind of student I was then, but I do remember the first moment my heart swelled with true happiness. It was in Year 2. I had scored a perfect 20 out of 20 on my English paper. My handwriting was neat and clean, carefully shaped with a black pen. I remember holding that paper, smiling in a way so pure and genuine, as if the world around me didn’t yet exist—just me and that simple joy.

School was full of strange little moments. There were drawing exams—yes, actual exams for drawing. Even now, the thought makes me laugh. I remember sketching a bird against a small, childlike scenery, only to notice the girl beside me copying my work stroke for stroke. I grew restless, hiding my paper like it was a secret treasure, my tiny heart angry at her audacity.

But not all memories were lighthearted. Once, during play, I pushed a girl without meaning any harm. She stumbled, tumbled down the stairs, and landed headfirst into a bucket of water. She cried and cried until the teachers called my guardian. I was terrified—my mother had always punished every mistake, every wrong choice. But that day, she didn’t raise her hand. I remember sighing with relief, the fear slowly leaving me.

Final exams came, and I placed second. The sting was sharp. In Year 1, I had been first. My rival, a girl from the same neighborhood, looked at me with triumphant eyes and said, “Finally, I beat you.” Our story had begun long before school—we were born just minutes apart, in the same hospital, our mothers sharing the same bed in the maternity ward. Years later, fate would bring us to the same high school, though by then I had skipped a grade and our paths only crossed in passing.

Some memories linger not because of greatness but because of the strange detail. I remember walking past a Year 3 classroom and smelling something foul. A boy had soiled his pants. His grandmother arrived, embarrassed, to clean and collect him. The other children had been sent outside, their laughter echoing in the hallways. Years later, I saw that same boy again, still in the neighborhood, still in a class below me—he had failed, I assumed.

But there were tender memories too. My mother, despite her strictness, sometimes bought me matching hairbands for my dresses. I wore them proudly, feeling for once like the little girl she wanted me to be.

Year 2 was a blur of triumphs, mistakes, laughter, and fears. I was still too young to understand the world’s cruelties, still too innocent to recognize the weight of comparisons and judgments. All I knew was that, in moments like holding that perfect English paper or wearing a new hairband, I felt a rare, unshakable happiness.

There was a time in my life when everything felt like it was changing all at once. A new school, new friends, new teachers, a completely unfamiliar environment—and, on top of that, the constant pressure to become the topper. I was just a child, and all the decisions were made for me by my mother.

I had always been a bright student, so I skipped year 3. After finishing year 2, we moved me to St. James Mariaton Private School, one of the best private schools at the time. But that change didn’t bring happiness—it brought cruelty.

I was dark-skinned, short, skinny, and considered ugly by others. My hair was so short that even in girls’ clothes, I often looked like a boy. Naturally, no girls were interested in me. I tried, desperately, to fit in—but I never did.

I remember the excitement of wanting to share something new with my classmates. One day, I asked my mother to give me a soft drink in a bottle that looked like water. I was so excited to show it to my friends, to finally be part of the fun. But when I offered it, the boys and girls pretended to have headaches, claiming their heads were spinning. I got a call from the school guardian. At that moment, I convinced myself they were pretending just because they didn’t like me.

That period was filled with tantrums, hate, and even my first innocent crush on a boy. But I was just a child, riddled with complexes and confusion. Finally, the year ended, and I passed into 6th grade. I felt neither happy nor sad—just empty, indifferent to the result.

My memories are vague, but I remember my mother starting to give tuitions everywhere, dragging me along. Ironically, while she focused on teaching other kids, my own studies were neglected. I struggled and begged her to teach me, fearing failure. And yet, even my pleas often met with punishment.

I recall one incident vividly—after a midterm science exam, she beat me harshly because I didn’t write the sentences without gaps. Even though I later scored 20/20, the memory stayed lodged in my mind, a reminder of constant fear and shame. I remember sitting in front of my classmates, unable to lift my head, consumed by humiliation.

There was a day we visited an uncle’s house because his mother was sick. I remember forcing a smile, excusing myself to the washroom, and staring at my reflection. I wanted to look pretty—why? Because I didn’t want anyone comparing me to my mother’s fair skin. Even as a child, I understood the weight of comparisons, and I longed, desperately, to be seen.

This was my secret story—my struggle hidden behind small smiles, silent cries, and the weight of expectations. It was a world where appearances mattered, where kindness was rare, and where a little girl, dark-skinned and short, fought to find her place and her identity.