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Lost in the cold I lay pondering and wondering where it all went wrong, I think about my life as fleeting as it was. I wondered if it had any meaning, and so I lay in the icy water—hands freezing and dead, legs numb. I can't even let out a sigh because I can't feel anything. So I remember the days when I was younger, the moments and memories that shaped my life.
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The bell that rang that day did not only signal the end of a school period—it marked the beginning of a question that would haunt me for years: Who am I allowed to be?
I ran all the way back to class, my heart racing faster than my feet could carry me. My lungs burned, my skirt fluttered with every hurried step, and yet all I could see was his face—no, her face. The red-haired girl. I did not understand why my chest felt so tight whenever I thought of her, or why my thoughts refused to let go of that fleeting encounter.
At ten years old, I did not have the language for longing, nor the courage to question it.
At home, life continued the same way it always had—measured, strict, suffocating. My mother's voice was law, my father's silence heavier than any words he could have spoken. Meals were eaten quietly, prayers said loudly, and mistakes punished severely. I learned early that obedience was praised, while curiosity was dangerous.
"Viola," my mother would often say, adjusting the collar of my dress, "a woman's worth is measured by her restraint."
I nodded every time, though I never quite understood what restraint had to do with worth.
At night, when the house fell silent and the lamps were blown out, I would stare at the ceiling and imagine a different life—one where I could breathe without permission. Sometimes I imagined myself walking freely along the bay, barefoot, the waves kissing my