People think my life is easy.
They don't say it to my face, of course. But I hear the things they don't say out loud.
"Of course she aced the bio exam. She's Sam Walker.""Must be nice to have your whole future mapped out.""Her parents are loaded. She's probably never even washed a dish."
They think I glide.
That I float through school on charm and luck and the golden pass of being that girl — the one whose name makes teachers pause and other students step out of the way just a little.
And sure, I don't correct them.
Let them think it's effortless.
Because the truth?
The truth is harder to explain.
Here's what they don't see:
My parents only call when they want me to be somewhere.Business dinners. Holiday brunches. Events where I'm introduced like a trophy.
"This is our daughter, Sam. Captain of the basketball team. Highest scores in her class. Head of announcements."
Their tone is always proud. But their eyes never stay on me long enough to mean it.
As a kid, I learned early that success = attention.
When I won my first writing contest in fourth grade, my dad actually showed up to school to pick me up.He didn't even look at the certificate. Just asked if I was ready for the next one.
When I placed second the next year, he didn't come at all.
That's when I understood.
Love came in moments.Sharp and rare and earned.
So I started chasing them like oxygen.
Honor rolls. Medals. Captains. Perfect reports.
Every line of achievement a desperate knock on a door that rarely opened.
No one sees how much I study.
How I stay up at night rereading old notes, reciting presentations under my breath in front of the mirror, working through problem sets even when I already know the answers.
They don't see the way my hands shake during speeches — how I dig my nails into my palms to steady my voice.
They only hear the confidence.
The calm.
And they believe it's real.
"Sam Walker's got it made," someone whispered once as I passed.
I didn't turn.I just kept walking.
Because if I stopped, if I even paused to tell them that none of it felt easy — not the grades, not the leadership, not the quiet — I might shatter.
And I've spent years building this version of me.
The one that looks untouched.
Untouchable.
And then there's Alex.
Alex Jones and I aren't a couple.
Not really.
But we've been supposed to be for years.
Our families run in the same uptight, polished, dinner-party kind of circle. Our parents have "known each other forever." Which is code for: they do business together and want to keep it that way.
We grew up hearing things like:
"You two would look so good together when you're older.""Imagine the Jones-Walker wedding. It would be the event of the decade."
So, eventually, we gave in.
Not to love.
To convenience.
I still remember the conversation.It happened in the hallway after gym class.
"You know they're never gonna stop trying to set us up, right?" I'd said.
Alex had shrugged. "So let them think they've won."
"We just pretend?"
He sipped his juice box like it was a champagne flute. "Fake it. Smile at dinners. Let them call us a couple. Buy us time."
I didn't even pause.
"Deal."
It worked better than I expected.
The moment people saw us together — standing just close enough, sitting beside each other at assemblies — the matchmaking stopped.
Our parents stopped pushing.
The teachers called us "balanced."
The students started whispering.
"Campus power couple.""They're already practically engaged.""She doesn't need anyone else — she has Alex."
And that's the part that hurt the most.
Because no one asked me what I wanted.
They just saw him beside me and assumed I had it all.
Alex was easy to be around.
He didn't ask questions.Didn't look too close.Didn't notice the way my hands sometimes curled into fists when I sat through family dinners in silence.
He didn't talk unless he had something funny to say.
And he never asked me how I was.
I liked that about him.Until I didn't.
Last week, my mom texted me mid-class:
Don't forget Friday's dinner. Alex's parents are expecting you to be there.Wear something soft. Keep your hair down. They like you that way.
I didn't reply.
She didn't follow up.
That's how it's always been.
Our house is big. Clean. Quiet in a way that feels clinical.
It's not a home so much as a display unit — like one of those model homes they show in catalogs. The kind that looks perfect from the outside but still smells faintly like paint.
I grew up in bedrooms that changed decor every year, like a reset button my mom kept hitting in place of real presence.
Piano lessons. Ballet classes. Fencing. Language tutors.
Not once did anyone ask what I liked.
Not once did anyone sit beside me when I cried after I got cut from the drama club freshman year.
My mom just said, "You're not built for performing. Stick to what you're good at."
And I did.
Because she noticed me when I won.
Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be the kind of kid whose mom bakes cookies just because.Who gets phone calls that don't begin with "We have guests coming, can you make time?"
I don't think I've ever been hugged without earning it first.
And maybe that's why I chase stillness now.
People think I'm calm because I have it all together.
I'm not calm.
I'm tired.
Alex met me outside the language lab today.
"You skipping lunch again?" he asked, balancing a soda can on his fingers.
"I've got work."
He smirked. "You always have work."
I didn't answer.
He leaned in like he was about to say something clever. "Want me to tell the lunchroom we're on a dramatic break?"
"I don't care."
"I'll say I broke your heart. That always plays better."
I kept walking.
He didn't follow.
I found a quiet stairwell, sat on the second-to-last step, and let the silence settle around me like a blanket.
No noise. No eyes. No questions.
I stared at the ceiling until the buzzing in my chest eased.
And still — something felt hollow.
Sometimes, I wonder if I've built my entire life on a lie.
On achievements that don't fill me.On a relationship that's just noise-canceling for expectations.On silence that isn't peace, just the absence of being seen.
And lately…Lately, I've started wondering if that silence is really safety.
Or if it's just another kind of emptiness.
[End of Chapter 3 – Untouchable]
The peace I built wasn't love.It was silence disguised as safety.And I was starting to wonder if that was enough.