The interview ends, and a surge of happiness blooms within me. It's just a different state, but it's a start—my start. My lips stretch into a bright, uncontainable smile. A thought crosses my mind: I can't wait to tell my daddy.
The joy shatters before it fully settles. My breath catches in my throat, my body stiffens, and for a split second, I realize—I have reached a delusional state.
I always pretend I have a daddy who loves me, who spoils me, who adores me unconditionally. I whisper to him in my head, seeking comfort only he can give. But the cruel reality slams into me with such force it almost knocks the air out of my lungs. How long have I let myself believe this lie? How long have I wrapped myself in this illusion, convincing myself it was real? But then—my emotions shift again. I don't care.
No one knows. Only me.
And if this is the only way I can be happy, then why should it matter?
I clutch my oversized pink bunny plush, nearly half my size, pressing it tightly against my chest. My fingers stroke the soft fabric as if I could transfer my sorrow into it, let it soak up all the broken pieces of me. Just a little longer, bunny. Just a little longer, and we'll be free.
Still, a tiny ache remains—a quiet, desperate wish for someone, some father figure, to be here, to celebrate my little victory with me. But there's no one. Just me and my bunny.
I fiddle with my fingers as I gather the courage to tell my mother about the housing search. "I'll be out this weekend to check on the housing," I say, keeping my voice even.
"Tell your father and go with him," she replies without looking up.
My stomach twists. She always does this—forcing me to bond with him, ignoring how unsafe I feel around him. It always takes a full-blown breakdown for them to maybe acknowledge how toxic they are, and even then, their egos never allow them to admit their faults. Fifty-year-olds acting like children.
Dragging my feet, I make my way to the living room. My father sits there, flipping through his phone, uninterested in anything around him. I call his name once. No response. Twice. Silence. I stand there, waiting, until finally—finally—he acknowledges me with an irritated glance.
"I need to check the housing this weekend," I tell him, keeping my tone neutral.
His eyes narrow. "Did you ask the company about this? Did you confirm that? What about that? Why didn't you think about this?"
I brace myself as the questions morph into yells, each word slamming into me like a blunt force. Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I ask the right questions? Why am I always a disappointment?
It's the same. Over and over. Always the same.
I shrink inward, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. My chest tightens, but I refuse to let him see me crumble. I wait until he's done, murmuring a quick "Okay" before retreating to my bedroom.
I slam the door shut. Darkness engulfs me as I switch off the lights. The air is heavy, suffocating. My hands fumble for my bunny plush, clutching it tightly as I curl into myself on the bed.
Please, don't come in. Please don't ask me more questions. Please just let me disappear for a while.
I bury my face under a pile of pillows, pressing my body against the wall as if I can mold into it, vanish into the cracks. In the solitude of my room, I imagine my imaginary daddy holding me close, his fingers running gently through my hair. My daddy wouldn't yell at me. My daddy wouldn't belittle me. My daddy would make everything okay.
Is it so wrong to be delusional?
None of my friends have these issues with their fathers. They complain about them, sure—but they can still seek comfort from them. I have no one. And even if I turn to dating apps, the men there only want fun, no commitment. They won't deal with a girl like me—a girl desperate for something deeper, something real.
They don't want a girl with baggage. They just want a distraction.
That's all they are.