You sat at the kitchen table, your fingers tracing the scratches on its worn surface. Your parents were standing, voices rising with each passing second.

“You never listen. You’re always in your head or with that stupid weed,” your father snapped. “Do you have any idea how disappointed we are?”

Your mother’s voice was sharp too. “And the scars… you think we don’t see? What kind of message are you sending?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maybe I’m sending the message that I’m hurting. That I’m scared. That I’m trying to survive in a world that doesn’t care.”

Your father slammed his hand on the counter. “Survive? That’s not good enough! We want you to thrive, not waste your life.”

Tears stung your eyes. “Maybe I’m not made for your world. Maybe I never will be.”

Silence fell heavy. Then your mother whispered, “We just want you to be better.”

You shook your head, voice breaking “I’m not broken. I’m me.”