I was born on a very normal day.
No thunder. No destiny. No background music.
Just my mother screaming my father's name in a tone that said, You caused this. Fix it.
My father panicked immediately.
Not emotionally—logistically.
He ran around the house asking questions no one had answers to.
"Where is the towel?"
"Why is the towel wet?"
"Who used the towel?"
As if childbirth would politely wait until the towel situation was resolved.
My mother shouted,
"STOP RUNNING AND DO SOMETHING USEFUL!"
My father replied,
"I AM DOING SOMETHING. I'M THINKING."
That was his favorite lie.
Someone said we should call a doctor.
Someone else said we should pray.
My grandmother said neither was necessary.
"In our days," she said confidently, "children were born at home."
Everyone looked at her.
My father asked carefully,
"…And they survived?"
She didn't answer.
That silence followed me my entire life.
When I finally arrived, I cried.
Not loudly.
More like a customer who received the wrong order.
The nurse handed me to my father.
He stared at me. Long. Hard. Suspiciously.
He asked the nurse,
"Is this normal?"
She said,
"Yes."
He looked at me again.
"…Are you sure?"
The nurse sighed.
"It's a baby. Not a device. It doesn't need updates."
That was the first time someone defended me.
I liked her.
I grew up in a house where emotions followed strict rules.
If my mother shouted, things were fine.
If she went quiet, someone had already died inside.
My father believed in discipline.
"Do your homework," he said.
My mother believed in psychological warfare.
"Do whatever you want," she said softly.
"I won't say anything."
That sentence ruined my sleep for years.
One day my father whispered to me,
"She's angry."
I whispered back,
"But she didn't shout."
He looked serious.
"That's worse."
By the age of six, I had learned survival skills they don't teach in school.
Skill One: Pretending to study
Book open.
Eyes focused.
Mind completely empty.
My mother asked,
"Are you studying?"
"Yes," I said confidently.
She glanced at the book. It was upside down.
She nodded.
I realized early—truth was optional if confidence was strong.
Skill Two: Footstep Identification
Fast footsteps meant my father forgot something.
Slow footsteps meant judgment was approaching.
Barefoot footsteps meant my mother was coming with disappointment and emotional damage.
No superhero training compares to this.
School was my first experience with organized humiliation.
My bag weighed more than my future.
I carried books I never opened,
homework I never did,
and expectations I never understood.
One day the teacher pointed at me.
"You. Answer."
I stood up. My brain stood down.
"…Which question?" I asked.
The class laughed.
The teacher didn't.
"Bring your parents tomorrow."
That night I didn't sleep.
Not because I was scared—
because I was calculating how to disappear without affecting attendance.
As I grew older, my body began changing without consulting me.
Hair appeared in places it shouldn't.
My voice cracked during important sentences.
And suddenly—girls existed.
Not around me.
Just… in my head.
I became shy, awkward, and deeply philosophical at night.
By morning, I was still useless.
My friends and I discussed girls like war strategists.
"Girls like confidence," one said.
"No, girls like mystery," another argued.
"I think girls like guys who talk to them," I said.
They stared at me like I betrayed the group.
None of us talked to girls.
But advice was unlimited.
Every night before sleeping, I made promises.
"Tomorrow I'll wake up early."
"Tomorrow I'll study."
"Tomorrow I'll change my life."
Tomorrow never replied.
Morning always arrived like:
You again?
Life didn't begin with a dream.
It began with confusion.
Everyone around me pretended they knew what they were doing.
They didn't.
Neither did I.
And somehow…
that became normal.