In romance, I was the pitiful one. Every attempt at love felt like an uphill battle, a struggle to convince someone that I was worth their time, their heart. Rejected time and again, I wondered if I was simply unworthy of the affection and care that others seemed to find so effortlessly.
Family relationships weren’t much different. There was this constant, gnawing sense of being the odd one out, the one who didn’t quite measure up. It was as if my presence was a reminder of something unwanted or unfulfilled. I found myself sidelined, yearning for acceptance and understanding that always seemed to elude me. I was rejected everywhere—by romance, by family, by the world.
Hearing of unpleasant remarks of how rude I am, Alexander, who had always harbored a deep-seated hatred for me, found his anger reaching new heights. His face reddened with rage as he cursed aloud, “That bitch! If only she had never been found. We were better off without her. I hope she just died in a ditch somewhere!”