I keep wondering what love really means—not just in romance, but in friendship, in family, in the simple day‑to‑day kindness that strangers show each other. I’ve never felt it. No one ever checks on me, asks how I’m doing, or even pauses to see if I’m okay. My parents don’t call to ask if I’ve eaten or if my day went well. When I’m sick, nobody reminds me to take my medicine. Friends only appear for the fun parts, not for the agony. I don’t date; my insecurities crowd every mirror and every thought. So I stay quiet. It feels safer to be invisible than to risk being judged. I try to be kind to everyone—maybe kindness can fill the empty places inside me. But I hide who I am, afraid that if people saw the real me, they’d confirm what I already suspect: that I’m a disappointment. I’m not pretty: round brown eyes, thick eyebrows, thin lips, big teeth. Morena skin. Shorter than I wish. People say I’m smart, but I forget things, I’m lazy until I’m forced to act, I walk around carrying too many failures. I quit school in high school—no money, no support, just a history of abuse. I never cried about it. Crying felt useless; nothing would change. Sometimes I call myself a curse. Then I ask, Why keep pushing? Why stay strong when I feel I have nothing left? I lost myself in my teenage years, and I’ve been wandering ever since. How am I supposed to know what love is if I’ve never felt it? How do you recognize a feeling you’ve only read about? Maybe the first step is admitting the ache out loud—so the world, or at least one person in it, might finally see me. (—lamuerte)