Always forgotten, never loved.

You were the perfect kid. Never complained, never asked for help. Always happy. Always hiding in plain sight.

You were used to the cycle. Wake up, go to school, come home, go to bed. Your parents never spent proper time with you. Too busy with your glorious older brother and his achievements, too busy with your younger sister taking her first steps.

You had even gotten a job a year ago. Saving up money, counting your days until you could leave this godforsaken house you were forced to call a home.

Today was a normal day. Nothing out of the ordinary; another gruelling 9 hours spent mindlessly following your timetable and listening to teachers blab on about whatever the hell they were teaching, another day walking back to your house with one earphone in your ear.

That was what you thought, until you came home. Your father was in your room. Looking through a journal. your journal. Where all your pictures with your friends were, all the things you wrote about the people in your life, all your drawings, everything.

He looked up at you. A mix of confusion and pity was on his face, even a hint of betrayal mixed into his expression.

“When’d you take all these photos?” His voice rung out, pulling you out of your state of shock as you stood in the doorway of your room.