u/ika-ace

English is my third language. So I write my thoughts into a paragraph and ask chatgpt to FIX the grammatical errors. I understand ppl hate AI. I respect your guys opinion. But I'm just 16 and I just wanna connect to ppl on reddit. I don't want my lack of linguistic skills to be an obstacle. And it hurts when I make a post in hopes to find my ppl. But the first comment pops up to be "Boo AI slop" or the sub community removes it. I'm so sorry if it hurts anyone. But please lemme know what I should do. I'm learning english and trying to improve.

I don’t know if anyone else has experienced this, but I feel like I loved my parents so much that I slowly stopped being myself just to keep them happy. When I was younger, I loved drawing, painting, skating, dressing up, styling my hair, talking to people, and just being loud and expressive in general. But my parents didn’t approve of most of it, especially me being “too talkative” or social, so little by little I stopped everything. And whenever teachers told my dad during PTMs that I had become quieter and more obedient, he would come home proud of me and tell me I was a “good daughter” for listening to him. I think that’s when I started associating love with becoming smaller.

Over the years, I changed the way I dressed, stopped doing makeup, stopped talking freely, stopped socializing, stopped doing the hobbies I loved, and basically buried every part of myself that felt alive because I was scared of disappointing them. My dad has even told me that if I ever became someone he didn’t approve of, he would abandon me completely and act like I never existed. So now I feel stuck because I still love my parents deeply, but at the same time I feel like I lost myself trying to be the version of me they wanted. And honestly, the hardest part is grieving the person I used to be because I barely recognize myself anymore.

When I was seven, back in 2016, our neighbors had a son who was the same age as me. We were never really close friends, but when you’re children, friendship is simpler than that. If someone lives nearby and is your age, you play together. That was enough.

One day, I was riding my bicycle when he jokingly tried to push me from the side. He didn’t mean to hurt me, but kids don’t always understand how quickly things can go wrong. My cycle flipped, and the back of my head hit a brick. I got hurt badly enough to remember it, though not badly enough for stitches.

After that, I started avoiding him. I didn’t explain why. I just kept my distance in that silent, stubborn way children often do.

Then one day, his family was moving away.

I had just come back from dance class when my mother told me to go say goodbye. Their things were already packed. Boxes were stacked everywhere, taped shut, ready to go. They were leaving within the hour, and all the other neighborhood kids had already gone to see him one last time.

But I refused.

Maybe I was still upset. Maybe I was being proud. Maybe I just didn’t understand what goodbye really meant.

When you’re seven, “forever” doesn’t feel real. It’s just another word adults say.

Then, at the last moment, something in me changed. I suddenly felt like I had to go. So I ran to his house.

I still remember it clearly. The house felt empty already, like it had stopped being a home before they had even left. His room, once full of toys and noise, was almost bare.

He was sitting quietly beside a toy box, holding a rubber duck in his hand. It was a yellow mother duck with tiny ducklings attached to her back—the kind you play with in the bath.

I said goodbye. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just a small, serious goodbye in the way children try to act grown up.

Then he handed me one of the baby ducklings.

At the time, I accepted it casually. I didn’t realize I was being given something that would last longer than our friendship ever did. I didn’t know this tiny yellow toy would become the only thing left of someone who would disappear from my life completely.

Children never know when they’re inside a moment they’ll remember forever.

I kept that duck.

When I was little, I once tried to “feed” it bits of sponge, so my brother made a small slit in its beak for me. I stuffed too much inside, and it became swollen and deformed. Later, my brother carefully cut open the bottom to take the sponge out. Over time, it became more fragile. The paint in its eyes faded.

But I never threw it away.

Ten years have passed, and I still have that tiny yellow duck.

It’s damaged now. Old. Barely holding together.

In some ways, so am I.

Maybe that’s why I keep it. Not because it’s worth anything, but because it reminds me how the smallest things can carry the heaviest memories.

A stupid childhood accident. A silent grudge. A rushed goodbye. A room full of boxes. A boy I never saw again.

And a tiny rubber duck that understood farewell long before I did.