The first time I felt the sting of being overlooked, it wasn’t for a job or a scholarship.
It was love.

He wasn’t the most beautiful boy in the room. Not by any standard. But to me, he glowed—like someone lit a fire beneath his skin. Maybe it was how he listened to my words, some unspoken words that never left my lips or how he remembered the little things that made me happy.

We were friends. The kind who texted till 2 a.m., laughed till our ribs ached, traded playlists like secrets.
I thought—I knew—he felt it too.
We were friends, the kind the held each other comfort.

Then one night, he spoke of her.
A her who wasn’t me.

“She’s amazing,” he said, reverent like prayer.
“She’s a delicate flower—soft like the lily, innocent like the daisy, perfect like the tulip. She’s my bluebell, and I’m the sunlight on her petal.”

He lit up like a child whose favorite candy just got restocked.
Like a child who has sugar rush he said, 
“I think I’m going to ask her out.”

I smiled. I nodded, my heart stuttering  like it had just lost its reason to beat.

I walked home beneath a sky that didn’t care. The stars blinked indifferently. The wind brushed past me like it had better places to be.

That night, I cried on the cold bathroom tiles. No screams. No fists. Just quiet, exhausted tears. My chest felt hollow—like love had passed through me and forgot to close the door, love shot a gun and it bruised my heart.

For days, I whispered lies to myself.
You’re strong.
You’re happy for him.

At some point, I started noticing how he was not so much of a beautiful boy, how I was too big for him
But truth?
I hated how easily I was passed over.
How I was there but never really seen.
How his eyes would shine at her but not me
How I prayed for him to see me in my morning prayers

How I had opened a door and stood there smiling—only for him to choose a different house entirely.

It got worse;

I started avoiding mirrors because all I see when I look at the mirror is her reflection instead of mine 

And suddenly, I began to question everything I once loved about myself.
Was I not soft enough?
Too loud?
Too much of something, or not enough of anything?

I started shrinking without meaning to.
Laughed quieter.
Texted slower.
Avoided mirrors that refused to flatter.
Food didn't taste the same, he wasn't here to share it with me 
The room_quiet, he didn't come over again

She was lovely—of course she was.
Kind. Radiant. The kind of girl who walks into a room and gets remembered.

And I?
I was the friend. The shadow. The secret-keeper.

I watched them fall into a story I had written in my head.
Watched him touch her the way I once imagined he’d touch me.
He’d still call, still check in—and I’d lie like it was an art form.

The hardest part wasn’t that he didn’t love me.
It was that he could have.
And didn’t.

That was my first taste of rejection disguised as affection.
When someone chooses a version of happiness—and you’re not in it.

But grief, as it turns out, is a brilliant teacher.
It taught me to live unchosen.
And pain—it taught me how to clap with a clenched fist.

Time, the odd tailor, stitched my broken heart.

And now I know—
Even if the role isn’t mine,
The story still is.

#bruisedpen