Chapter 1
A world of my own
Chapter OneA World of My Own
If someone ever asked me what happiness looked like, I don’t think I’d have to think very hard about my answer.
For me, happiness has always been home.
It’s the sound of my mother’s voice calling me from the kitchen, my father’s footsteps as he walks through the front door, and the endless noise my two brothers create over the smallest things. It’s the arguments over who took whose charger, the complaints about someone eating the last piece of something, and the laughter that follows even when nobody remembers what started it.
Our house is rarely quiet, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My brothers have mastered the art of annoying me. They can ruin a perfectly peaceful moment in seconds, steal my food without the slightest guilt, and somehow make every argument seem like it’s my fault. But they’re also the first people I look for when I come home. I want to know what happened during their day, what made them laugh, and whether anything upset them.
I suppose that’s what loving someone feels like. Their little worlds become part of yours without you even realising it.
My parents are different. Their love is quieter, but it’s everywhere. In the way my mother remembers the smallest things I tell her. In the way my father asks about my day, even when he’s tired. In the food kept aside for me, the little reminders to take care of myself, and the comfort of knowing that, no matter how ordinary or terrible my day has been, I can always come home and be myself.
I never have to wonder whether I belong here.
I can talk too much, laugh at silly things, be moody for no reason, or sit quietly in a corner without explaining myself. Nobody makes me feel like I need to become a different person to deserve their attention.
At home, I am simply me.
And I love that feeling more than I know how to describe.
Maybe that’s why I have always believed that the world outside would be just as beautiful if I treated people with the same love and kindness I received at home.
I thought friendships worked that way, too.
You talk to someone. You remember the little things they tell you. You ask if they’re okay when they seem upset. You help when they need you, laugh with them, share your stories, and slowly, without forcing anything, you become important to each other.
At least, that’s how I imagined it.
Outside my home, I have always been the kind of person who notices people. I notice when someone’s smile looks a little forced. I remember when someone tells me about something they’re worried about. I find it difficult to walk away when somebody needs help, even when I have things of my own to do.
And if I’m being honest, I have always hoped that these little things would bring people closer to me.
Not because I wanted anything in return for every kind thing I did. I just wanted to feel that I mattered to someone in the same way they mattered to me.
I wanted someone who would look for me in a crowded room. Someone who would save a story just to tell me later. Someone who would notice when I was unusually quiet and ask what was wrong—not because they needed something from me, but because they genuinely wanted to know.
Someone who would choose me.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask for, is it?
The strange thing is that I have never really felt lonely at home. My family fills my days with so much love that sometimes I forget loneliness even exists.
It’s only when I step outside that I begin to notice it.
At school, I can spend hours talking to people and still come home feeling as though I haven’t really connected with anyone. I know about their problems, their favourite things, their arguments, their secrets, and the people they care about. I listen to their stories and try to make them feel understood.
But sometimes, when I have something to share, I find myself wondering whether anyone would care enough to listen.
So I usually keep it to myself.
It’s easier that way.
And then I come home, where my brothers argue over the television, my mother asks me something from another room, and my father wants to know what happened at school. I start talking, laughing, complaining, and telling stories, and for a little while, I forget that there is a part of me that feels invisible everywhere else.
Perhaps that is why I keep trying.
Every morning, I leave home believing that maybe today will be different. Maybe today I’ll meet someone who understands me. Maybe I’ll finally become the person someone thinks of first, rather than the person they remember when everyone else is busy.
I still believe in that possibility.
I think that’s the most hopeful thing about me, and perhaps the most foolish, too.
Because despite all the little disappointments, I still find myself making room for people in my life, hoping that one day, someone will make room for me in theirs.
And I have no idea that one ordinary day, something will happen that makes me question everything I’ve ever believed about friendship.
But that’s a story for another day.
For now, I’m just Evanah.
A girl with a happy home, a family she loves more than anything, and a heart that still believes there must be a place for her somewhere in the world.
