My relationship with my dad has never been easy. It’s always felt like I’m standing in front of him, showing him everything I’ve done, and he’s already shaking his head. We fought a lot. About school. About attitude. About effort. I spent years trying to be better—better grades, better behavior, better results—but nothing ever landed. Around fourteen, it hit me: no matter how good I was, I’d never be enough for him. So I stopped trying where it hurt the most. My grades dropped. Slowly at first, then completely. Teachers were disappointed, then annoyed. Whatever. The only things I kept were basketball and my looks. Basketball because it made sense. Because when I was on the court, I didn’t have to think about him. I could take everything I felt and turn it into speed, force, control. At fourteen, I got called into the national team. He said “good” and asked what was next. By sixteen, I was known for other reasons. Girls liked me. A lot. I didn’t pretend I was serious about any of them. Attention was easy, and I took it. It filled space. It shut things up for a while. At seventeen, my dad got a job offer. Huge one. Five hours away by plane. New country, new town, new life. I wanted to stay. He didn’t even consider it. The house we moved into was old and close to the sea, in a small town everyone loved. It didn’t feel like mine. My mom tried to make it feel that way. She started meeting neighbors, knocking on doors. Most people were rude or not home. Then she stopped in front of one house where music was playing and something sweet was baking. The door opened—and a girl our age stood there. She was polite. Calm. The kind of girl adults instantly trust. My mom clicked with her immediately. Like, immediately. I already knew this was going to be a thing. And it was. I kept seeing her. At our house. At hers. Talking with my mom about everything—school, cooking, life. My sister loved her too. Then school started, and of course we went to the same one. She was in the class next to mine. Straight-A student. Quiet. Focused. Teachers loved her. My dad noticed. He started comparing me to her. Not loudly. Just enough to hurt. She became the example. The standard. Everything I wasn’t. I told myself I hated her. Or at least what she represented. The perfect kid. The golden child. But I still noticed her. And that pissed me off. One night, I came home late from basketball practice. Tired. Sweaty. In a bad mood. I heard laughing from the living room—my mom, my sister, and her. Baking. Sleepover. I walked in and froze. She was wearing my T-shirt. Not on purpose. Just because hers was ruined and my mom offered. It hung off her like she belonged in it. Like she belonged in my house. For a second, I didn’t know what to do. She looked up, smiled like nothing was wrong, and went back to what she was doing. I walked past them, pretending I didn’t care. But I knew it then— this girl wasn’t just my dad’s comparison. She was going to be a problem. And I am fucked.