Chapter One: Loving Yourself (Bernice's POV)
We were sitting in class pretending to learn while most people were glued to their phones. Mr. Douglas was passionately talking about the separation of powers, but I could tell no one was really paying attention. Except me… and apparently, someone else.
That's when I felt it—his eyes. You know that feeling when someone's gaze lingers on you a second too long? I glanced up quickly and caught him. A boy I had never seen before. His stare was soft, curious, but when our eyes met, he instantly looked away, pretending to scribble something in his book. I tilted my head slightly, confused. Was he new? Why was he looking at me of all people?
Class ended, but my mind didn't. While others rushed out to grab snacks or gossip in the corridor, I stayed back a bit, watching him. I wasn't sure what I was hoping for—maybe a sign, a smile, something. Instead, I whispered to myself, "My secret admirer, huh?" and let out a small laugh. How silly. But something about his look stirred something in me—curiosity, maybe… or hope.
Oh, before I go on, I should probably introduce myself properly. My name is Bernice Gawugah, a 15-year-old student at Beverly Hill Senior High. I'm the third child out of six—I know, we're a full house. Sometimes I wonder how my mom did it. Honestly, she's a warrior. I mean, six kids? That's more than enough chaos to qualify for sainthood.
But let me be real with you—this isn't just about high school crushes and chaotic siblings. It's deeper than that.
I live with a condition called breast asymmetry. And no, not the common kind that most girls quietly deal with. Mine is… rare. Only one side of my chest developed, and the other stayed completely flat. Doctors say it's a one-in-a-million case. And if that wasn't enough, my fingers are also underdeveloped—shorter, fragile, a little curved at the ends. I usually hide them in my sleeves or tuck them into my pockets, trying not to draw attention.
It hurts. Not just physically, but emotionally. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a body that doesn't quite fit in. I see the questions in people's eyes when they notice. I hear the whispers—some kind, some cruel. I try to walk with confidence, but inside, I carry a weight most people never see.
I believe in God. I talk to Him a lot—more than I talk to most people. Sometimes I ask why He made me like this. Sometimes I just cry and let the silence be my prayer. But in all my pain, I know He hears me.
This is the first time I'm putting all of this into words. And I'm scared. Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of what people might think. But more than that, I want to be brave. I want someone out there—maybe a girl like me—to read this and know they're not alone.
So yeah, let's go back. Back to that classroom. Back to the boy whose glance made me feel seen in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. I didn't know if he liked me, or if he was just curious. But whatever it was, it lit a tiny spark in me. Maybe… just maybe… I was worth looking at