Dear Diary,
I don't know what made me open you today. Maybe it's the silence. Maybe it's the way the air feels heavy, like it's pressing against my chest. Or maybe… I'm just tired of pretending that everything I've gone through didn't happen.
So, I've decided — today, I'll tell you everything.
From the very beginning.
From the moment I wasn't even supposed to exist.
I was born on a cold January morning, my mother said the sky was gray, heavy with clouds that refused to cry. I guess even the sky was trying to hold its tears, like everyone else. When she first saw me, she told me she felt warmth in her chest, like holding sunlight for the first time after a storm.
But she also told me something else — something darker.
Before I was born… nobody wanted me.
---
My mother said the house was filled with whispers back then. Relatives visiting every day, their voices like poison wrapped in false concern.
"Another girl? You'll ruin the family's name."
"What use is a daughter? She'll just leave you one day."
"Abort it before it's too late."
They said all that, as if I were a curse they could erase with a doctor's signature. My father didn't say much back then, but my mother told me he was drowning in pressure. Everyone around him kept saying it was "for the best." That keeping me would bring shame to the family. And he… he believed them for a while.
When my mother told me this, I didn't know how to feel. Should I hate them? Should I hate him? Or should I hate the world that made him believe that love depends on gender?
She said the hospital appointment was already booked. The day I was supposed to die.
But fate, or maybe something beyond it, had other plans.
---
On the morning of the abortion, there was chaos in that hospital. Some kind of accident, she said– a pregnant woman had died during surgery, and the hospital was being investigated. Cops everywhere, people shouting, files being taken away. My parents panicked and went back home, deciding to "try again later."
But days turned into weeks, and the plan never returned.
My mother said she started feeling me move inside her — tiny, fluttering movements like whispers saying,
"I'm still here."
And that was how I was born — not because they wanted me, but because fate interrupted their attempt to erase me.
I wasn't a blessing. I was a mistake that refused to disappear.
---
When I was little, I didn't know any of this.
I thought everything was normal.
I thought every family had that coldness behind smiles, that silence at dinner tables when someone mentioned my name.
I thought every child grew up feeling like an intruder in their own home.
My mother was my only comfort. She held me when no one else did. She defended me when relatives called me "unlucky." But even she couldn't shield me from everything.
She was always tired, always trying to keep peace in a house that didn't want me. I could see it in her eyes — the guilt. The pain of loving something everyone told her not to love.
Sometimes, when I'd cling to her arm, I'd hear the others whisper:
"She's cursed, you'll see. Nothing good will come from her."
And maybe, a part of me started believing it.
---
When I was five, I overheard my father arguing with one of my uncles. The words of my uncle still echo in my mind:
"You should've gone through with it. Now look at her, she's a burden already."
A burden.
That's what I was.
Not a daughter, not a gift. Just a weight on their shoulders.
That night, I cried under my blanket. My tears soaked the pillow, and I prayed— not for love, but for disappearance.
I wished I could vanish so that nobody would have to hate me anymore.
But when I woke up, I was still there. Breathing. Existing.
And that's when something in me changed.
I began to see love differently. I began to think– maybe love isn't real. Maybe it's just a lie adults tell to make their cruelty sound poetic. Because if love was real, why would my own family want me gone?
---
Years passed, and I learned how to smile in front of others. I learned how to say "I'm fine" when I wasn't. I learned how to laugh when people made jokes about daughters being useless.
But every laugh felt like a wound tearing open a little more.
I began hating the world for making me feel small. For making me believe I had to earn the right to exist.
I began hating those relatives – their fake smiles, their empty blessings, their "concern" that always hid disgust.
And slowly, that hate began to take root.
It started growing like a shadow in my chest, whispering:
"They hated you first. So why can't you hate them back?"
That whisper never left me.
It stayed.
It grew.
It learned to speak louder when I was alone.
---
There was a day I'll never forget.
My father came home drunk, angry about something that happened at work. He shouted at my mother, threw a glass, and it shattered across the floor.
I was sitting nearby, frozen.
He turned to me, his eyes red and tired.
"You. You shouldn't have been born."
The room fell silent.
Even my mother couldn't speak.
I remember standing up, trembling, my tiny fists clenched.
I wanted to scream at him– to ask him why he said that.
But my voice refused to come out. It stayed trapped in my throat, burning.
That night, I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself for a long time.
My face looked like my mother's— but my eyes looked like his.
I didn't know who I was supposed to be anymore.
A daughter? A curse? A reflection of their regret?
For the first time, I whispered to my reflection:
"If they hate me for being born… then I'll give them a reason to."
I didn't know what I meant by that. I just knew that something inside me had cracked, and through that crack, something darker began to slip in.
---
The next morning, I saw my mother crying quietly while washing dishes. Her eyes were red, her lips trembling. When she saw me, she forced a smile.
"It's okay, Misaki. Your father didn't mean it."
But he did.
And we both knew it.
That's when I made a promise to myself, that one day, I'd prove them all wrong.
That I'd become someone they couldn't ignore.
That their words wouldn't define me, my actions would.
But deep down, another voice whispered something else— something colder.
"Or maybe… you'll become just like them."
And maybe, that voice wasn't lying.
---
Sometimes I wonder, if that hospital incident hadn't happened, if fate hadn't interfered, would I even exist? Would anyone have remembered the child they erased before she had a name?
Would I still be trapped between life and nothingness, screaming to be heard by parents who never knew I was gone?
Maybe that's why I see things others don't.
Maybe that's why sometimes, I feel like I'm not completely human.
Like I'm something that shouldn't exist— yet does.
When people talk about miracles, they imagine light and blessings.
But I think… I'm the kind of miracle that was born from a curse.
---
You know, Diary… sometimes I imagine another world, a world where I was wanted. Where my parents smiled when they saw me, not out of obligation but out of love. Where relatives gifted me dolls and ribbons, not silence and disgust.
Maybe in another universe, that version of me exists. A girl who laughs freely, who paints under the sun, who doesn't carry the weight of being unwanted.
But in this world…
I'm the version that survived.
And maybe survival itself is the cruelest kind of miracle.
---
I can't help but think, maybe the hate that grows inside me isn't entirely mine. Maybe it's the reflection of all the hate that surrounded me since the day I existed.
Maybe I'm just their mirror, reflecting the ugliness they created.
Maybe that's why I can't stop feeling it, that fire that burns quietly in my chest whenever I think of them.
Because the hated…
has now become the hater.
And that's from where my journey began…