Chapter -1 Nobody hear
The first person who ever rejected Allea was her mother.
Allea would not learn that until years later.
At the time, she was nothing more than a tiny heartbeat hidden inside a grieving woman.
When Kristen Allea’s mother discovered she was pregnant, she stared at the test for a long time.
“No…” she whispered.
Not because she hated children.
Not because she was cruel.
But because she was tired.
She already had a son.
She already had a daughter.
Her family was complete.
No plans for another baby.
Then, as if life had decided she wasn’t suffering enough, the phone rang.
Her mother was sick.
Very sick.
Kristen’s father spent money like water in order to save her wife and take her to every single doctor he could, but still she didn’t recover.
Within a month, she passed away
The woman who had raised Kristen was gone.
People were crying around her.
Someone was speaking.
Someone was praying.
But Kristen heard nothing.
All she could see was her mother’s face.
Still.
Silent.
Gone.
That night she locked herself in the bathroom and cried until her body shook.
Then her eyes fell to her stomach.
Two months pregnant.
Two months.
Inside her was a child she never asked for.
A child arriving at the worst moment possible.
A child growing while everything else in her life was falling apart.
She pressed both hands against her stomach.
And for a moment — a moment she would never tell anyone about — she wished the baby would simply disappear.
She hoped every day that somehow her child die, she wished and begged God.
Sometimes when she is at the roof and coming down a bunch of random thoughts filled in her mind that the child should get end i don’t know how but it should get end
For a brief moment, she looked down to the stairs hoping that her leg would get twisted, and I got good news that the child is finished, but that didn’t happen either.
Most of the time, Kristen spent hours eating nothing and working a lot.
She has been eating nothing for months, but still somehow the child survived
The child survives every time.
“Please,” she whispered through tears.
“Please don’t make me do this.”
The baby answered with silence.
And kept growing.
Nine months later, Allea entered the world screaming.
The nurses laughed.
Allea would spend most of her life fighting.
Not against monsters.
Not against villains.
Not against fate.
She would fight something much harder.
The feeling that she was unwanted.
When Allea was little, everyone loved her.
People carried her around at family gatherings.
Her uncle kissed her forehead and declared proudly,
“This one will be the beauty of the family.”
Everyone agreed.
Pictures were taken.
Laughter filled rooms.
People fought over who got to hold her.
And somewhere in those early years, Allea felt safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
Then she grew up.
And something changed.
Not overnight.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Cruelly.
Like a flower dying one petal at a time.
By ten years old, Allea had learned something children should never have to learn.
People treated beautiful things differently.
Her older sister entered a room, and heads turned.
People smiled.
Complimented her clothes.
Praised her face.
Invited her into conversations.
Loved her effortlessly.
Allea entered the same room.
Nobody noticed.
At family gatherings, she sat quietly while relatives talked around her as if she were furniture.
When they did notice her, it was rarely kind.
“Why are you so skinny?”
“You look weak.”
“Do you even eat?”
“That dress doesn’t suit you.”
Each comment was small.
Small enough to be dismissed.
Small enough for adults to laugh off.
But children remember small things.
Children collect them.
Store them.
Carry them.
Until one day those small things become the voice inside their head.
The day Allea realized she was different was at a wedding.
Music thundered through the hall.
Colored lights danced across the walls.
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Her cousins were laughing together in the center of the room.
Allea stood near the edge, watching.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Someone finally noticed her.
“Why isn’t Allea dancing?”
Her heart jumped.
Maybe they wanted her.
Maybe this time she wouldn’t be left out.
One of her cousins glanced at her.
Then shrugged.
“She doesn’t know how to dance.”
The girls laughed and turned away.
The music continued.
The room remained bright.
Nothing dramatic happened.
Nobody shouted.
Nobody insulted her.
Nobody even noticed.
But something broke.
Years later Allea would remember that moment perfectly.
The lights.
The music.
The laughter.
The way her stomach hurt.
The way she pretended she didn’t care.
The way she smiled so nobody would see she wanted to cry.
That night she stood alone in front of her bedroom mirror.
The house was asleep.
Moonlight spilled through the curtains.
She stared at herself.
Her thin arms.
Her narrow shoulders.
Her face.
She searched for the reason people always chose someone else.
Maybe nobody likes me.
The thought arrived quietly.
Then stayed.
As she grew older, the loneliness became heavier.
What hurt most wasn’t strangers.
It was home.
Her mother celebrated her brother’s successes.
Her father adored her sister.
Allea watched from the corners of rooms.
From dinner tables.
From doorways.
Always watching.
Always waiting.
Waiting for her turn.
Waiting for someone to look at her the same way.
Sometimes she stayed quiet so she wouldn’t be a burden.
Still she felt invisible.
Not unloved.
Invisible.
And invisibility can hurt just as much.
Some nights she lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Listening to the ticking clock.
Wondering the question she never dared ask aloud.
If I disappeared tomorrow… would anybody notice?
The thought frightened her.
Because a part of her already believed the answer.
Years later, when she was cleaning an old cupboard, she found a photo album.
Dust covered the corners.
The pages smelled old.
She flipped through them absentmindedly.
Then she froze.
There she was.
A newborn baby.
Wrapped in a pink blanket.
Tiny fingers curled into fists.
A face untouched by self-doubt.
A face untouched by comparison.
A face untouched by pain.
Behind the photograph was a folded piece of paper.
She unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting belonged to her uncle.
“She will be the most beautiful child in our family.”
Allea stared.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then her vision blurred.
A tear landed on the page.
Then another.
Then another.
Suddenly she wasn’t crying for the woman she had become.
She was crying for the little girl she used to be.
The little girl who spent years trying to earn love.
The little girl who believed every cruel word.
The little girl who stood at weddings pretending rejection didn’t hurt.
The little girl who stared into mirrors looking for reasons she wasn’t enough.
The little girl who never realized that none of it had been her fault.
She pressed the photograph against her chest.
And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to grieve.
Not for what she had lost.
But for what she had never received.
The love she spent her whole childhood waiting for.
And as tears rolled down her face, she whispered into the empty room:
“I was only a child.”
