Mom always says I’m special.

“ Grisha, don’t worry about the other kids. It’s going to be fine, I promise! “

“ Won’t they make fun of me? Because I’m…”

“ If anything ever happens, you come to me, all right? You know your a bit more unique than the other kids’, but that makes you special. “

Unique.

Special.

All kinds of words are used from all sorts of people so that I don’t feel different. But I am different. Where do you find skin like mine? Tan, pale, brown, white, dark skin. You can find them all in one body: my body.

And it hard, very hard to feel special in my body, and it’s even harder when people keep reassuring you about it, because I know that when they say that to me, it’s to make sure that I believe that I am special. But they wouldn’t keep saying that to someone beautiful. They would say your special just once, and they’d know that person would believe it. So I think it just makes it worse.

But that’s ok.

I’ve gotten used to the stares.

The fingers pointed at me.

Hearing the whispers and rumours everywhere.

I’ve also gotten used to fake smiling,

Fake laughing,

False emotions.

But the truth is I do it all for them.

They know how this happened.

They know it destroyed me.

My parents know how I was saved from the fire and not my grandpa.

They know I still cry in my pillow at night.

But if I hide it, maybe they’ll forget what lies underneath.

And I’m willing to do that for them.