I’m only 20, but it feels like I’ve lived several lifetimes already. My childhood was a whirlwind of chaos and pain—I spent years in foster care after being removed from my abusive parents, shuffling from one house to another, never really belonging anywhere. By 14, I managed to graduate high school early, thinking that maybe achievement would give me some sense of control over my life. At 16, desperate for purpose and escape, I lied about my age to enlist in the army, throwing myself into a world where discipline replaced the uncertainty I grew up with. Two years later, I joined the police force at 18, chasing a sense of justice and stability I could never find in my own life.

But life has a way of breaking even the strongest fronts. A gunshot wound to my shoulder left me with lingering tremors that make even simple tasks feel like battles. Recovery has been slow and lonely. I live by myself in a quiet apartment, surrounded by the echo of my own thoughts. I’ve never had a girlfriend, never really experienced what it’s like to share a piece of my life with someone else. Most days feel heavy, like I’m dragging my past behind me wherever I go.

Right now, I’m sitting in a small café, staring at the plate in front of me, trying to eat with trembling hands. The smell of coffee and pastries fills the air, and there’s a soft hum of chatter around me, but it all feels distant—like I’m watching life through a window. Everything is harder than it should be, and yet, here I am, still trying.