The third daughter. People think they know me just by looking at me. They tell me to be better, to smile more, to speak less. But nobody asks what’s going on inside my head. Sometimes I’m in a room full of people—over a thousand—and I still feel completely alone. And yeah, I get mad. Words come out faster than I can control, and suddenly everyone thinks I’m disrespectful, arrogant, broken. And if I try to explain myself? Then I’m rebellious, like I don’t deserve to speak. It’s like the world expects me to be perfect, to stay nice, to never hurt, to never fail. And the truth? I’m just trying to survive. I’m trying to stay alive in a place that doesn’t let me breathe. I’m trying to be a good daughter when nobody even sees the fight inside me. But here’s the thing—they can judge me, call me names, look at me wrong, and I’ll still be here. I’m still trying. I’m still me. I’m angry, I’m tired, I’m loud, I’m scared—but I’m not going anywhere. And if that makes them uncomfortable, that’s their problem. I am the third daughter. I am fifteen. I am trying. That’s enough.