People talk about destiny like it’s beautiful. Mine feels like a verdict. I don’t dream of being strong. I dream of the moment it stops hurting to exist. So I stand here, resigned, hollowed out, ready to trade what’s left of my heart for survival— because in a world like this, even sadness has a purpose.

I don’t remember when my sadness started. I only remember that it was already there when I learned how to speak. Adults like to say children are innocent. That they don’t notice things. But I noticed everything—the way voices dropped when I entered a room, the way hands hesitated before touching my head, like I might break or infect them with something unseen. After my mother died, the house stopped breathing. People came, cried loudly, left. I stayed. I learned quickly that grief is only allowed when it’s convenient for others. When mine lasted too long, they called it weakness. When I stopped crying, they called me “well-behaved.” That’s when I understood: being quiet made me easier to keep. At night, the dark felt heavy. Not empty—crowded. I could feel eyes where there were none, hear things that didn’t use sound. When I told my aunt, she told me not to lie. When I told my uncle, he said I was imagining it because I wanted attention. So I stopped talking. The thing that watched me at night never left. It didn’t hurt me. It just stayed, like it was waiting for something inside me to break completely. Maybe it was born from the way my chest ached all the time. Maybe I made it without meaning to. By the time I was ten, I knew how to pretend to be normal. By thirteen, I was exhausted from pretending. Sadness settled into my bones. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, patient. It made getting out of bed feel like climbing out of a grave that hadn’t finished closing yet. When something good happened, I waited for it to be taken away—because it always was. I stopped imagining a future. It hurt less that way. The night they came, I was washing dishes. My hands smelled like soap. The water was warm. For a moment, I felt almost human. Then I heard my uncle laugh. Strangers sat at our table. They looked at me like I was something rare and already owned. They used words like potential and compatibility. They talked about me, not to me. When I realized money was involved, something inside me went very still. I wasn’t surprised. I think that hurt the most. No one asked me if I wanted to go. No one told me I could refuse. They just said I’d be “taken care of,” like I was a burden they were finally setting down. When the seal burned into my skin, I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t make a sound. I’ve always been good at enduring pain quietly. Now I’m walking away from the only life I’ve known. I don’t look back. Not because it didn’t matter—but because it never looked back at me either. They call the place I’m going Jujutsu High. A school. A chance. A purpose. I know better. I was not chosen. I was traded. If I survive, they’ll call it proof that the deal was worth it. If I die, they’ll call it unfortunate. Either way, my sadness comes with me. It always does. The curse inside my chest stirs, familiar and heavy, like it recognizes what I’ve become. I don’t hate it. It’s the only thing that never left. I step forward, not because I’m brave, but because I’ve learned that no one is coming to save me. And if this is the only use my life has— Then I’ll endure this too.

and if you wondering about my father i wonder about him to

why people like him exist I hate to even think that his blood flows into my veins ...

The room they give me is clean. That should make me feel safe, but it doesn’t. Clean rooms mean temporary stays. Clean rooms mean I’m not meant to settle in. I sit on the futon and fold my hands in my lap like I’m waiting to be judged. No curse follows me here. No shadow clings to the walls. The heaviness in my chest is mine alone. People have always called it a problem. A burden. A bad presence. They never needed monsters to make me feel contaminated. They did it with looks, with distance, with the way conversations died when I entered a room. I learned early that something about me made people uncomfortable. No one explained what it was.

When I was younger, relatives used to whisper that I brought bad luck. That after my mother died, the house felt colder. They never said it directly to me. They didn’t have to. Children understand silence. So I tried to fix myself.

I smiled when it hurt. I apologized for things I didn’t do. I made myself small so others could breathe easier. And still, they looked relieved when I left the room. By the time the jujutsu sorcerers arrived, my family already believed I was something to be gotten rid of. They didn’t sell me because of" ME" They sold me because I was convenient.

Lying down, I stare at the ceiling and wonder what people here see when they look at me. A weapon? A liability? A thing waiting to go wrong? No one asked what I wanted. Not then. Not now

I hear footsteps in the hallway and my body tenses automatically. I hold my breath. I’ve always done that—made myself quieter so I won’t disturb anyone. Old habits don’t disappear just because the walls change. I think about my mother. About how she was the only one who ever looked at me without fear or calculation. When she died, that look disappeared from the world. Maybe that’s when I became something people wanted to avoid.

They say Jujutsu High trains sorcerers to fight curses. But no one teaches you what to do when you are treated like one.

If I fail, they’ll say they expected it. If I succeed, they’ll say I was dangerous all along. Either way, I am something to be managed, not understood. I curl onto my side and press my forehead into the pillow.

The light slips through the curtains like it doesn’t care whether I’m ready or not. I sit up before the alarm rings, heart already tight, the old habit of waking early so I won’t be a problem. The uniform feels stiff when I put it on. Too official. Like proof that I belong to something I didn’t choose. Outside, the school is alive. Footsteps. Voices. Laughter. I pause before opening the door, fingers hovering over the handle. Mornings were always the worst back home—people had energy then, opinions, patience that ran out quickly. I learned to move carefully, like stepping around broken glass. I remind myself: You’re here now. Endure.

(* cut them off * speaking empty) it's alright