The mirror never lied, no matter how much I wanted it to.
They were always there—those angry red spots scattered across my skin, which were a constant reminder of my imperfections.
No amount of makeup could hide them. I had tried everything, from overpriced creams to treatments that promised miracles, but my reflection always greeted me with the same defeated expression.
It wasn’t just the pimples. It was what they represented—my insecurities, the weight of not feeling good enough.
I had always been like that—self-conscious and overly aware of my imperfections—since I was 15, ever since a classmate’s nasty comment changed the way I saw myself. Before that, I was just an innocent child like everyone else, carefree and blissfully unaware of how the world could suddenly shift with a few cruel words.
It happened during break time. I was in a hurry to reach the toilet, trying to beat the inevitable long line, and in my rush, I accidentally bumped into one of my classmates. I apologized immediately, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but instead of accepting it, she turned toward me with a sneer and spat out words I’ll never forget: “Watch where you’re going, pizza face.”
Her voice rang out loud enough for others to hear. The hallway fell silent, and I could feel the weight of my classmates’ stares burning into my skin. I stood there, frozen, as a wave of humiliation crashed over me. My heart pounded, not from the rush to the toilet anymore, but from the sharp sting of her words.
From that moment, I saw myself differently. No longer just a girl trying to navigate school, friends, and life—I became the girl with the bad skin. Her words echoed in my mind every time I looked in the mirror. It wasn’t just about the pimples anymore; it was about the label she gave me. And even though the years passed, and I tried to move on, the weight of those insecurities lingered like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
For years, I went from one dermatologist to another, desperately hoping for a solution.
I tried every cream, serum, and remedy anyone recommended, no matter how strange or expensive.
I was willing to do whatever it took to have flawless skin, like the girls I saw around or even just my friends who never seemed to struggle with the same thing.
You won’t believe how far I went—I once begged a pregnant woman for her urine because someone promised me that washing my face with it would cure the pimples. Yes, I actually believed it. That’s how desperate I was. I convinced myself that maybe, just maybe, this time, it would work. But of course, it didn’t. And with each failed attempt, my self-worth chipped away a little more, as if the blemishes on my face were seeping into my confidence, staining it in ways I couldn’t wipe clean.
It wasn’t just about my skin anymore. It became about proving to myself that I could be good enough, that I could fit in, and that I wouldn’t always be the girl everyone whispered about. The obsession with finding a cure wasn’t just about beauty—it was about feeling like I deserved to be seen, to be accepted.
Do people say that money can buy happiness? No, it can’t. Trust me when I say this—money didn’t fix what was broken inside me. My father had all the wealth I could wish for, and from the outside, it looked like I had everything, but I wasn’t happy.
The one thing I believed would bring me happiness was being free from the pimples that had haunted me since I was a teenager. I thought that if I could just have clear skin, everything else would fall into place. That I’d finally feel confident, feel worthy. And maybe, just maybe, I’d find someone who could love me for who I truly am—beneath the imperfections, beneath the insecurities.
It didn’t matter how many treatments I tried or how many doctors I visited; nothing seemed to change how I felt when I looked at myself in the mirror. And love? That felt even more elusive. How could I expect someone to love me when I couldn’t even love myself?
It got to the point where every time I saw people laughing or whispering, I immediately assumed they were talking about me, mocking my appearance.
My mind would spiral into anxiety, convincing me that I was the joke, the subject of their ridicule. The weight of that constant paranoia became unbearable, so I found comfort in isolation.
Staying indoors became my refuge, a way to escape the judgment I imagined followed me everywhere.
Even at home, I couldn’t escape the need to hide. I always wore makeup, afraid to let anyone see me without it. I couldn’t step out of the bathroom without applying layers of makeup to mask my face, to shield me from the world—even from my own family. It was exhausting, but it felt like the only way to survive. Without it, I felt vulnerable, exposed, and unworthy.
That’s how bad things had gotten. I wasn’t just hiding from others; I was hiding from myself.
And the worst part? No one seemed to notice the silent battle I was fighting. Everyone around me was busy living their own lives, and I felt invisible—like I didn’t matter. Not once did my father or mother sit me down to ask if something was wrong or if I needed help. As long as they were confident that they had given us enough money to last until their next return from their endless business trips, they considered their job done.
They thought money could solve everything—buy comfort, happiness, and love, but what I really needed was something they couldn’t see: their attention, their time, their understanding, and their assuring words that I am beyond my skin. I didn’t need material things; I needed to be seen, to be heard, and to know that someone, anyone, cared about what I was going through.
For years, I was left alone with my thoughts, with my insecurities, and with the growing belief that I wasn’t worthy of the love and support I so desperately craved. That’s why when James came into my life, it felt like a breath of fresh air after a long, suffocating storm. At first, I didn’t know what to make of him—how could I, when I had trained myself not to expect anything from anyone? But he had a way of breaking down walls without even trying.
It wasn’t in grand gestures but in the quiet moments. The way his eyes softened when he looked at me like he truly saw me—not just the layers of makeup I hid behind, but the person beneath.
He never seemed to notice the things I fixated on—the imperfections I spent hours covering up—he was too busy listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes, or simply sitting with me in comfortable silence.
One evening, as we sat on the porch watching the sun melt into the horizon, he took my hand in his. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, sending warmth through me, something I hadn’t felt in years. “You’re beautiful,” he said softly, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. I almost laughed, thinking it was just a line. But when I looked up, the way he looked at me made me believe it for the first time.
James made me feel seen in a way no one else ever had. He asked about my day, my dreams, my fears as if every word I spoke mattered. With him, I felt safe for the first time. He filled my silence with reassurance and promised that he will never leave me alone as long as he will be still alive. With him, I started to come alive again. The world, which had once seemed so dark and isolating, began to crack open, letting in the light I hadn’t realized I was missing.
For the first time in my life, I felt worthy, but sadly, that feeling was short-lived. The James I once thought would always be there—the James who promised me heaven and earth—turned his back on me. And after him, everyone else followed.
This particular scene will never leave my mind:
I was sitting in my room, my phone in my hand, reading James’s message over and over. Tears were streaming down my face, each one falling like a drop of betrayal I couldn’t hold back. My chest tightened with a pain I had never known. Just then, my father walked in, the first time in what felt like forever that he had stepped into my world. Oblivious of his presence, I looked at the pregnancy test result on the table, then down at the message again, its cruel words stabbing at me like daggers.
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