You sat at the kitchen table, your hands folded tightly in your lap. The room felt smaller than usual, heavy with the smell of burnt toast and stale coffee. Across from you, your parents stood, faces taut with frustration.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you anymore,” your father said, voice low but sharp. “Your sister called earlier—she’s got a full scholarship, internships lined up. And you? You’re just… here. Doing what exactly?”

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m trying, Dad. I’m not failing.”

“Trying?” His laugh was bitter. “Smoking weed every night doesn’t count as trying. You’re numb, you’re checked out, and you don’t even care.”

Your mother folded her arms, eyes flashing. “And the scars. How many times are we supposed to ignore those? You think we don’t notice? It’s like you want to push us away.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. “I don’t want to push you away,” you said, voice cracking. “I’m scared. I’m scared of everything. I’m trying to survive.”

“Survive?” your father snapped. “Life isn’t about surviving. It’s about succeeding. You’re dragging us all down with this attitude.”

The sting of those words was sharper than you expected. Tears pooled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “Maybe I’m not supposed to succeed the way you want me to.”

Your mother’s face softened for just a moment, but then she shook her head. “You don’t get to just give up and hide behind your problems. You’re better than this.”

“Better for who?” you shot back, standing up so quickly your chair scraped the floor. “Better for you? For them? For the perfect family you want to show off?”

Your father’s jaw clenched. “We want what’s best for you.”

“But it feels like what you want is to erase me,” you whispered. “To pretend I don’t exist if I’m not perfect.”

Your mother looked away, unable to meet your gaze. “We just want you to be happy.”

“You don’t know what happy looks like for me,” you said, voice breaking. “You only know your version of it. And I’m tired of trying to fit into it.”

You grabbed your hoodie from the back of the chair and slipped it over your head. Your hands were shaking now, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“I’m done trying to be someone I’m not,” you said, voice steady despite the tears rolling down your cheeks. “Maybe I’m the black sheep. But at least I’m real.”

Without waiting for a response, you shoved past them and slammed the front door behind you. The cold night air hit your face as you stepped onto the porch, alone but finally free.