She wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to exist in this dark and twisted place where everything was bent out of shape, where every face was a mask hiding something uglier underneath. But there she was, curled up in the filth, grime-streaked and bruised, her spirit beaten down but not quite broken. Not yet.

They called her the diamond—_the diamond in the rough,_ but they never said it with kindness, never with admiration. No, it was always spat out with that sharp edge, the kind that cuts deep even when you’re expecting it. Because in a world like this, in a place like _this_, there’s no room for something so pure, something so bright. _They couldn’t stand it,_ the way she still shone, even through the dirt, even with the darkness clinging to her like a second skin.

But diamonds are formed under pressure, _aren’t they?_ They’re made in the crushing, suffocating depths, where the weight of the world presses down until there’s nothing left but something _hard,_ something _unyielding._ And she was hard, even if they didn’t see it. Even if they just saw the dirt, the grime, _the rough edges_ that hadn’t been polished smooth by privilege or comfort or anything else they took for granted.

_She was hard,_ but not like them. Not cruel, not empty inside. Her hardness was different, _born of survival,_ of holding on to that last spark when everything else had been stripped away. And it was that hardness that kept her going, that kept her fighting when the world tried its best to grind her down into nothing.

But even diamonds can break, can crack under the pressure if it’s too much, _if it’s relentless._ And the cracks were there, running deep beneath the surface, _fissures_ she tried to hide, but that showed through when the light hit just right. It wasn’t _her_ fault, though. No one could survive in a place like this without shattering a little, without losing pieces of themselves along the way. And she’d lost plenty, more than she could count, more than she’d ever get back.

She’d been kicked around, _tossed aside,_ treated like trash by people who didn’t even know the meaning of the word. People who thought they were better, just because they hadn’t been caught in the same trap she had. _But they were wrong,_ so wrong, because they didn’t see what she was. _What she could be._ They didn’t see the way she still held on, the way she still _shined,_ even when they tried to bury her in the dark.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? _That’s the fucking thing._ No matter how much they try to bury you, how much they try to crush you down into nothing, _you can still shine._ Maybe not like before, maybe not as bright, but enough. _Enough to matter._ Enough to make them notice, even if it’s just for a second, even if they hate you for it.

She knew what they said about her, _the whispers,_ the jokes that weren’t jokes at all. _But she didn’t care,_ because she knew something they didn’t. She knew that diamonds, _real diamonds,_ don’t come out of the ground sparkling and clean. They come out rough, covered in dirt, in rock, in everything that’s tried to keep them hidden. But with enough time, with enough pressure, _with enough fight,_ they break free.

She was breaking free. _She had to._ Because if she didn’t, she’d be swallowed up, lost in the dark, forgotten like so many others. And she refused to be forgotten, _refused_ to let them win. Because she wasn’t just some stone they could kick around, _some thing_ they could use up and toss aside when they were done.

No, she was something _more,_ something better, even if they didn’t see it. _Even if they never would._ And maybe she’d never be polished, never be the kind of diamond they put in a ring or a necklace, never be something that shined bright enough for everyone to see.

But she didn’t need to be. She just needed to survive. And in a place like this, that was more than enough. More than they’d ever know.

Because even in the rough, _a diamond is still a diamond._ And she was still _here._