And to think that for the longest time, I believed I was the problem.
I spent years trying to improve myself for other people.
Trying to become easier to like.
Easier to understand.
Easier to accept.
Whenever something went wrong, I assumed the fault was mine.
If people disliked me, I must have done something wrong.
If I was excluded, there had to be a reason.
If I felt lonely, then surely I just wasn't trying hard enough.
So I kept changing.
Kept adjusting.
Kept twisting myself into whatever version of me I thought people wanted.
The funny thing is that none of it worked.
Because I was trying to fix something that was never broken.
I understand that now.
Back then, I didn't.
Back then, I thought if I just worked harder, smiled more, spoke differently, acted differently, existed differently...
Eventually, people would choose me.
But trying too hard in the wrong direction can hurt you just as much as never trying at all.
And I learned that lesson the hard way.
---
Seven Years Earlier
By the third day at Rider Entertainment, I thought I understood what I was dealing with.
The members didn't want me there.
Some of the staff clearly didn't want me there either.
Fine.
I could handle that.
I'd survived worse than cold stares and awkward silence.
All I had to do was work hard enough to prove myself.
At least, that was the plan.
The reality turned out to be much uglier.
Because the real damage didn't come from open hostility.
It came from something quieter.
Something harder to prove.
The kind of cruelty that makes you question your own memory.
---
That morning, I arrived early.
Very early.
I wanted everything ready before anyone else showed up.
The night before, I'd spent nearly two hours organizing rehearsal schedules, updating contact sheets, and sorting through upcoming events.
I had saved everything carefully.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
Because I didn't trust myself to make mistakes.
Not here.
Not with people waiting for me to fail.
I sat down at my desk.
Turned on my computer.
Opened the system.
And froze.
The files were gone.
All of them.
I blinked.
Refreshed the screen.
Nothing.
I checked another folder.
Then another.
Then another.
Still nothing.
My stomach dropped.
"No way."
I searched the system.
Checked the shared drive.
Checked the archive folders.
Checked the trash.
Nothing.
The schedules.
The contact sheets.
The reports.
Every single file had disappeared.
For several seconds, I just stared at the screen.
Then I forced myself to breathe.
Panicking wouldn't help.
I could rebuild everything.
It would take time, but I could do it.
Before starting, I turned toward the woman sitting at the nearest desk.
"Excuse me."
She barely looked up from her phone.
"Yes?"
"Have you seen the rehearsal files I uploaded last night?"
Her eyes lifted briefly.
Then she shrugged.
"No."
"I can't find them."
Another shrug.
"Maybe you deleted them."
I frowned.
"I didn't delete them."
This time, she looked directly at me.
A small smile appeared on her face.
Not a friendly smile.
The kind that makes you feel like you're missing a joke everyone else understands.
"Are you sure?"
Heat crawled up my neck.
Not anger.
Embarrassment.
The familiar embarrassment of being made to doubt yourself.
Of being told that something happening to you was actually your own fault.
I looked away first.
Because arguing wouldn't change anything.
Instead, I turned back toward my computer.
Opened a blank document.
And started rebuilding everything from memory.
One file at a time.
One schedule at a time.
One contact sheet at a time.
By the time I finished, nearly an hour had passed.
An hour I shouldn't have had to waste.
An hour that somehow still felt like my fault.
And that was the worst part.
Not the missing files.
Not the extra work.
The fact that a small voice in the back of my mind was already asking the question I'd spent most of my life asking.
What if they're right?
What if I really did mess something up?
I hated that voice.
Because no matter how much older I got, it always seemed to find its way back.
And for the first time that morning, a familiar feeling settled heavily in my chest.
The feeling that somehow, no matter where I went, I was becoming the problem again.
By mid-morning, I had managed to rebuild most of the missing files.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
I was reviewing the updated schedules when the director stopped beside my desk.
"Do you have the rehearsal timetable?"
"Yes."
I reached for the folder immediately.
Only to realize it wasn't there.
My stomach sank.
I checked the stack of documents beside me.
Nothing.
Checked the drawer.
Nothing.
For a moment, confusion clouded my thoughts.
I had placed it there less than ten minutes ago.
The director frowned.
"I need it for a meeting."
"I just had it."
Before I could say anything else, a voice spoke from nearby.
"Maybe he forgot where he put it."
A few people laughed quietly.
Another staff member looked up from her desk.
"Again?"
The word hit harder than it should have.
Again.
Such a small word.
Yet somehow it carried years of memories inside it.
---
For a split second, the office disappeared.
I was back in school.
Back in a classroom where nobody wanted to sit beside me.
Back in hallways filled with whispers.
Back in rooms where people looked at me and immediately decided I wasn't worth knowing.
"Did you forget again?"
"Why are you always so slow?"
"Can't you do anything right?"
The voices blurred together.
Then another voice joined them.
The one that always hurt the most.
My mother's.
"I wish you could just be normal."
I blinked.
The office returned.
The director had already moved on.
The staff members were talking again.
Life continued.
As if nothing had happened.
As if that single word hadn't reopened wounds I'd spent years trying to close.
I lowered my gaze.
Then returned to work.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
---
Things only got worse from there.
Around lunchtime, I received a message informing me that Rider's rehearsal room had been changed.
Simple enough.
I updated the schedule and informed everyone involved.
Or at least, I thought I did.
An hour later, chaos broke out.
The members arrived at the wrong room.
Staff rushed back and forth trying to figure out what happened.
And somehow, despite following the instructions I'd been given, the blame landed on me.
Again.
Always me.
I stood in the hallway holding my clipboard while people talked around me.
Nobody asked what actually happened.
Nobody checked the messages.
Nobody looked at the schedule updates.
The decision had already been made.
Then one of Rider's members walked past.
He glanced at me.
Shook his head.
And said,
"I told you we didn't need a manager like you."
Not loudly.
Not angrily.
Just casually.
Like it was a simple fact.
Like saying the weather looked nice.
The words shouldn't have hurt.
But they did.
Because somewhere deep down, a part of me was terrified he might be right.
---
The rest of the afternoon felt endless.
I tried focusing on my work.
Tried ignoring the whispers.
Tried pretending everything was normal.
Then I was sent to the supply room.
The room was small and cramped.
Shelves lined every wall.
Boxes and folders were stacked everywhere.
I was searching for a set of printed contracts when the door opened behind me.
Two assistants walked in.
The moment they saw me, they stopped.
A look passed between them.
One of those looks people think nobody notices.
I noticed.
I always noticed.
One of them folded her arms.
"You really think you belong here?"
I looked up slowly.
"I'm doing my job."
The second assistant laughed.
Not a real laugh.
The kind people use when they're mocking someone.
"Your job?"
She shook her head.
"You got lucky."
The first assistant nodded.
"There are people who've worked here for years."
"People who actually deserve this position."
My grip tightened around the folder in my hand.
I didn't answer.
What was the point?
They'd already decided who I was.
Nothing I said would change that.
The first assistant stepped forward.
"Everyone knows it."
Then both of them walked past me.
One shoulder clipped mine.
Hard enough to make me stumble.
Soft enough to deny it was intentional.
I hit the shelf behind me.
Several folders tumbled to the floor.
Paper scattered everywhere.
The assistants didn't stop.
Didn't apologize.
Didn't even look back.
A moment later, the door closed behind them.
Leaving me alone.
---
For several seconds, I didn't move.
The folders lay scattered across the floor.
Papers covered the room.
The silence felt heavy.
Humiliating.
Familiar.
And suddenly, I wasn't twenty-three anymore.
I was fourteen.
Standing in a school hallway.
My books on the ground.
Students stepping around them.
Stepping around me.
Pretending neither existed.
The same feeling.
The same loneliness.
The same question.
Why is this happening again?
Slowly, I crouched down.
Then began picking up the folders.
One at a time.
Just like I'd picked up my books all those years ago.
And standing there in that supply room, I suddenly felt fourteen years old again.