I had a perfect childhood—until I immigrated to the U.S. At first, I thought everything would be okay. But a few years later, I found myself struggling under the control of my parents. I tried to get a job, to carve out some independence, but in the process, I lost myself. School, friends, sports—everything faded into the background.

Through it all, I survived because of one person—my girlfriend. She was my light, the one who made me believe that, in the end, everything would be alright. And for a time, that belief kept me going, even after we broke up. It was her decision, and though it shattered me, I let her go because I wanted her to be happy, even at the cost of my own happiness. She was my everything.

Years of hardship followed. But I made it through. I graduated from college, landed a high-paying job, and got my own apartment—my own home. I had everything I had once dreamed of. Yet one night, as I lay in bed, memories came flooding back. I had lost my happiness. Surviving, it turned out, wasn't enough.

That night, I dreamt of my past—of all the pain I had buried. And in my sleep, I cried. I howled. I broke apart. My heart, weak from all it had endured, gave in. I never woke up.

I died at the age of 26.

FUCK!

And so begins The Chronicles of a Broken Child.