The Curse Between Two Worlds

“Using one word, how would you describe yourself?”

The words echoed through my head, ricocheting off the walls of my mind as I sat frozen in that plush red swivel chair—its softness a cruel contrast to the sharp edge of the moment. A live audience watched, silent and still, their eyes glued to me, dissecting every twitch, every blink, every ounce of hesitation. I tried to make sense of the question—the syllables, the sounds, the structure—pulling it apart and stitching it back together like a puzzle I’d never seen before.

Could they see me? Not just the suit and tie. Not the careful posture or the mask of composure I had practiced in front of mirrors and cameras for months. Could they see the beads of sweat gathering along my hairline, threatening to betray me under the bright studio lights? The nervous twiddling of my fingers just below the table’s edge? The way my leg bounced like a ticking clock counting down to something I wasn’t ready for?

Could they feel the nausea twisting in my stomach, the suffocating heat crawling up my neck like a wave about to crash? I swallowed hard, my throat dry. The tie felt like a noose—a thin, stylish death sentence pressing tighter with every passing second. I wanted to rip it off, fling it to the floor, and run. But I didn’t. That would look unhinged. Weak. And weakness had no place here. Not for me. Not anymore.

“Using one word, how would you describe yourself?” the interviewer repeated, her voice smooth, rehearsed, almost kind. Almost.

One word. Just one.

What word could possibly encapsulate an eighteen-year-old who had lost everything that ever meant something? What single word could hold the weight of a thousand untold truths? A single syllable strong enough to contain the grief, the guilt, the gnawing emptiness that had followed me like a shadow?

A hero? Survivor? Brave?

Sure. Those were the words others used. That’s how they saw me. That’s the version of me they had carefully constructed from headlines and hero worship, from whispers and assumptions. They saw the footage, read the stories, clung to the narrative that made them feel good about humanity. I was their symbol. Their success story. Their proof that hope still existed.

But what about the version they didn’t see?

The one that kept me awake at night, staring at the ceiling with ghosts for company. The one that replayed every scream, every flash of light, every moment I wished I could erase. The one that no applause could silence.

They knew what I did. They didn’t know what it cost me.

The cameras watched, red light blinking. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating. I could almost hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, drowning out the crowd. My mouth opened, but the air caught in my throat. Every answer I thought of felt wrong, hollow, dishonest.

So I told the truth.

“Broken,” I said softly.

And for the first time all night, the room went still—not expectant, not judgmental, just still.

Because they finally saw me.