BLEEDING HEART- The Weight Of Wanting To Be Chosen

The house was awake before I was.

I knew because the air already felt heavy—like it always did when my mother moved from room to room without greeting anyone. Her footsteps were sharp, deliberate, as if the floor itself had offended her. I lay still on my bed, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling above me, counting my breaths and pretending that if I stayed quiet enough, the day might forget I existed.

It never did.

“Are you still sleeping?” my mother’s voice cut through the hallway, loud enough to remind me that rest was a privilege, not a right. “Your brother has been up since five.”

Of course he had.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, my chest already tight. The comparison came as naturally to her as breathing. It always had. I wasn’t angry anymore—just tired. Tired of waking up already behind, already failing, already measured against someone I could never be.

When I stepped out of my room, the house smelled like burnt toast and disappointment. My brother sat at the dining table, relaxed, confident, flipping through his phone as if the world owed him patience. My father sat across from him, newspaper folded neatly, nodding occasionally at something my brother said. They looked like a family. I looked like a visitor.

“Good morning,” I said softly.

No one answered.

I moved toward the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of tea, careful not to make noise. My mother watched me from the corner of her eye.

“You still dress like that?” she said finally. “No sense of effort.”

I glanced down at myself. Simple dress. Clean. Neat. Safe. I had learned early that standing out invited criticism, so I chose invisibility instead. Still, it was never enough.

“I’ll change,” I said.

“Too late,” she replied. “First impressions matter.”

I swallowed. Everything mattered. Everything except how I felt.

My father folded his newspaper and stood. For a moment, I thought he might say something—anything—but he didn’t. He walked past me, brushing my shoulder slightly, as though I were furniture. That hurt more than my mother’s words ever could.

I took my tea into my room and closed the door quietly, pressing my back against it once I was alone. My heart beat faster than it should have. I hated how easily small moments unraveled me. I hated how much I wanted their approval, how desperate I still felt for something I had never truly received.

I sat on my bed and stared at my hands.

If I do better, they’ll see me.If I try harder, they’ll love me.

I had repeated those thoughts so many times they felt like prayers. And like most prayers in this house, they went unanswered.

The mirror across from my bed reflected a girl I barely recognized. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes alert, as if she were always bracing for impact. I leaned closer, studying my face the way my mother did—searching for flaws. My hair sat awkwardly, refusing to cooperate. My stomach curved when I sat down. My lips pressed together automatically, trained not to say too much.

I wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to exist without being evaluated.

Growing up, love was something you earned here. You proved yourself worthy of attention through achievement, obedience, silence. Mistakes were remembered longer than successes. And tenderness—real tenderness—was rare, almost suspicious.

I reached for my journal, the one thing that never judged me, and flipped it open.

Why do I feel like I’m always apologizing for existing? I wrote.

The pen shook slightly in my hand.

I wasn’t born broken. I knew that. Somewhere along the way, though, I learned to fold myself smaller, to smooth out my emotions, to become what I thought people wanted. I learned that being good didn’t guarantee safety, but it was the closest thing I had.

Outside my door, my mother laughed at something my brother said. The sound made my chest ache.

I closed my eyes.

This was where it began.Not with love.Not with romance.But with silence.

And I didn’t yet know how far that silence would follow me.

The house had always been loud—not with laughter, but with rules.

Rules that lived in the walls, in the sharp looks her mother gave when plates clinked too loudly, in the way her father’s footsteps announced authority before he even spoke. It was the kind of house where love existed, but only on conditions. And she learned early that being seen did not always mean being chosen.

She sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling that looked like a broken heart if one squinted hard enough. She had stared at it for years, tracing it with her eyes during nights when sleep refused to come. Nights like this.

Her room was her only refuge—soft yellow curtains, shelves cluttered with old notebooks, and a mirror she avoided on days when she felt invisible. Outside, the house hummed with familiar tension. Her mother’s voice floated down the hallway, clipped and tired. Her father replied with silence, which somehow felt louder.

She exhaled slowly.

Why is it so hard to be enough?

Growing up, she had been the “good child.” The obedient one. The one who learned how to disappear into corners so others could shine. Praise came sparingly, and affection was measured—never overflowing, never reckless. She watched her siblings receive things she didn’t know how to ask for: softness, patience, forgiveness.

Not because she was unloved—but because she was expected to be strong.

And strength, she learned, was lonely.

Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from a group chat she barely contributed to. University admission updates. Course registrations. Hostel rumors. Futures unfolding.

University.

The word sent a strange ache through her chest.

It was supposed to be freedom. A new beginning. A place where she could reinvent herself, where nobody knew the quiet girl who swallowed her pain and called it maturity. But somewhere deep inside her, a fragile fear stirred—because university wasn’t just a fresh start.

It was where he would be.

She hadn’t told anyone. Not her friends, not her family. That her first love—the boy who had once made her believe she could be chosen without shrinking—was attending the same university.

The memory of him came uninvited, as it always did.

The way he had looked at her like she was something rare. The way his absence had taught her that wanting deeply could also mean bleeding quietly. He hadn’t broken her with cruelty. He had broken her with leaving.

And she never fully healed.

A knock landed softly on her door.

“Are you awake?” her mother asked, already pushing it open.

She straightened immediately, schooling her face into calm. “Yes, ma.”

Her mother entered, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like she was searching for something out of place. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m just tired.”

Her mother nodded, but the look lingered. “University will change you. I hope you remember where you come from.”

The words were not unkind. But they weren’t comforting either.

“Yes, ma,” she replied, like she always did.

When her mother left, she let her shoulders sag.

Change you.

She wanted that. She feared it too.

She lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling crack again. The bleeding heart. The wanting-to-be-chosen heart. The part of her that still hoped love could be gentle, that family could be safe, that the past wouldn’t follow her into the future.

Outside, the night deepened.

Inside her chest, something stirred—quiet but persistent.

This wasn’t just the end of a phase.

It was the beginning of a collision.

There was a day she remembered more clearly than most.

Not because it was dramatic—but because it taught her a rule she would live by for years:

Love is earned. Silence keeps it.

She had been nine.

Too old to cry openly, too young to understand why her chest hurt when she tried to explain herself.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind that smelled like cooked rice and detergent. The house was busy—voices overlapping, plates clattering, relatives visiting. She had been excited that morning. She had practiced what she wanted to say in her head again and again, like a prayer.

She wanted to join the school debate team.

It was a small thing. Or so she thought.

She waited until her father sat in his chair, newspaper folded, glasses low on his nose. Her mother stood nearby, wiping her hands on a towel. This was the moment. She stepped forward, heart pounding.

“Daddy?” Her voice was small but steady.

“Yes?” he answered without looking up.

“I was selected for the debate team in school. They said I’m good at speaking and—”

Her mother’s towel froze mid-air.

Her father finally looked at her.

“How will that help your grades?” he asked.

She blinked. “It will help my confidence. And—”

Her mother sighed. Loudly. The kind of sigh that already meant no.

“You already talk too much in class,” her mother said. “Now you want to stand up and argue? Is that what girls should be doing?”

The room grew quiet.

She felt heat crawl up her neck. “I just thought—”

“You should think less and listen more,” her father cut in. “Your sister focuses on her books. Learn from her.”

Her sister, sitting nearby, didn’t look at her. She never did in moments like this.

“But they said I was talented,” she whispered, desperate now.

Her mother laughed softly—not cruelly, but dismissively. “Talent doesn’t feed a family.”

That was the moment.

Not when they said no.

But when nobody asked how she felt.

She nodded. Slowly. Respectfully.

“Okay, ma. Okay, sir.”

And just like that, something folded inward inside her.

That night, she cried quietly into her pillow, biting the fabric so no sound escaped. She learned how to make pain private. How to shrink dreams before they embarrassed her. How to clap for others while folding her own wants into neat, invisible boxes.

From then on, she became easy.

The child who didn’t argue.The one who didn’t demand.The one who carried responsibility like it was gratitude.

When she did well in school, it was expected.When she failed, it was corrected.When she hurt, it was unnoticed.

Affection came in instructions.Pride came without warmth.Love came with conditions she was never told outright—but somehow always understood.

As she grew older, she watched her siblings receive softness she couldn’t ask for.

When her brother failed, he was encouraged.When she failed, she was reminded of sacrifice.

When her sister cried, she was comforted.When she cried, she was advised to be strong.

So she became strong.

Strong enough that nobody noticed she was lonely.

Strong enough that nobody realized she was bleeding.

By the time she reached her teenage years, she no longer spoke her desires aloud. She wrote them instead—in old notebooks hidden beneath her mattress. Pages filled with words she never said. Questions nobody answered.

What if someone chose me without being asked?What if love didn’t require silence?What if I didn’t have to earn rest?

Those notebooks became her secret heartbeat.

And then came him.

The first person who looked at her like she wasn’t too much or too quiet—but exactly enough.

The first person who listened.

Which was why losing him later would hurt the way it did.

Because he didn’t just leave.

He reopened every place where she had learned that wanting was dangerous.

The first time she failed the exam, nobody yelled.

That silence was worse.

Her father read the result slip slowly, as though the words might rearrange themselves if he stared long enough. Her mother stood behind him, arms crossed, face unreadable. The ceiling fan hummed above them, indifferent.

“So,” her father finally said, folding the paper neatly, “what happened?”

She swallowed. “I tried.”

Her mother scoffed. “Everyone tries. Trying is not enough.”

That night, dinner was quieter than usual. Nobody asked her to pass the salt. Nobody asked how she felt. She ate carefully, each spoonful heavy in her mouth, guilt sitting where hunger should have been.

She told herself it was okay.I’ll do better next time.

The second failure changed everything.

The result came early that year—too early for hope to soften the blow. She stood in the same living room, holding the same slip of paper, but this time her hands trembled.

Her father didn’t even sit down.

“Twice,” he said flatly. “You’ve failed twice.”

Her mother clapped her hands together once, sharp. “Meanwhile, Mrs. Ade’s daughter got admission on her first attempt. First. Attempt.”

Her chest tightened.

“She’s already in university,” her mother continued. “Studying law. And you—”

She looked directly at her now.

“—are still here.”

The word here landed like an accusation.

“I’ll try again,” she whispered. “I just need—”

“Enough,” her father snapped. “Do you know how embarrassing this is?”

Embarrassing.

Not disappointing.Not worrying.Embarrassing.

“You think people don’t ask questions?” her mother added. “You think they don’t compare?”

Compare.

That word followed her everywhere after that.

At family gatherings, aunties tilted their heads sympathetically.“So… no admission yet?”

Neighbors smiled too brightly.“You’re still writing exams?”

Church members prayed too loudly.“God will remember you.”

Every comparison carved a little deeper into her self-worth.

She stopped defending herself.

What was the point?

At night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every insult, every sigh, every sideways glance. Her room became the only place she could breathe. Even there, the walls felt thin—like the house was always listening, always waiting for her to fail again.

But something changed after the second failure.

The pain hardened.

It turned into resolve.

She began to wake up before dawn, long before anyone else. She studied until her eyes burned. She took practice exams like confessions—over and over, searching for absolution.

She stopped explaining herself to her parents.

Let the results speak.

Her mother noticed the change first.

“You’re overdoing it,” she said one afternoon.

“I have to,” she replied quietly.

Her father only nodded once. “You should.”

No encouragement.No reassurance.Just expectation.

The pressure became unbearable—but also clarifying.

University stopped being about education.

It became escape.

She wasn’t chasing a degree.

She was chasing distance.

Distance from the comparisons.Distance from the disappointment.Distance from a house where love felt like a performance review.

When the admission letter finally came, it arrived without ceremony.

No drumroll.No tears of joy.

Just an envelope slid across the table.

Her father cleared his throat. “You got in.”

Her mother inspected the letter. “About time.”

But something inside her lifted anyway.

Not happiness—relief.

The kind that feels like oxygen after nearly drowning.

That night, she locked herself in her room and cried silently—not because she was proud, but because she was free.

Or so she thought.

Packing was quick.

She didn’t own much—just clothes, books, and the notebooks filled with words she never said aloud. As she folded them into her suitcase, she wondered who she would become outside this house.

Would she finally be enough?

Her mother supervised the packing like a checklist.

“Don’t forget your certificates.”“Remember who’s paying your fees.”“Don’t embarrass us over there.”

Her father stood by the door, silent.

When it was time to leave, nobody hugged her.

Her mother adjusted her scarf. “Focus.”

Her father nodded. “Make us proud.”

She stepped outside with her suitcase and a heart full of unresolved questions.

As the vehicle pulled away, she didn’t look back.

Because she knew if she did, she might mistake longing for weakness.

University was supposed to be her beginning.

What she didn’t know yet was that it would also be the place where everything she buried would resurface