~01

The first day of College.

For most people, it's exciting- a mix of nerves and thrill, the promise of freedom and friendships that might last a lifetime.

But for me, it feels like walking into a battlefield without an armor. Not because of the academics, nor because of the unknown campus, or the students......but because of my skin. Vitiligo. That's what the doctors call it. A condition that causes skin to lose its colour, because some cells forgot to do their job.

To the world, it looks like pale, scattered patches across my body. To me, it has always felt like a spotlight I never asked for.

Ever since my childhood, I've known what it meant to be different. Wherever I went, whether it was school or any function, people would whisper about me. "Why is her skin like that?", "Is she sick?", some mothers would even tell their children to stay away from me, as if I was some kind of walking disease. Every comment, every stare, made me more insecure.

My parents always told me I was beautiful, that my worth was not measured by my skin, but their love couldn't erase the mirror. The mirror always told the truth, and the truth is, I'm not like others.

And now, here I am, clutching my notebook like a shield as I step into "The Silver Oak University". The campus is alive, buzzing with energy. Laughter spills the lawns, some students were roaming around here and there, while others sat in groups, talking about their plans for the future.

I kept my head down, my open hair blowing in the wind and falling across my face, but I didn't bother fixing it. My kurti's sleeves tugged down to my wrists even though the August sun burnt hot. Because the last thing I want is for curious eyes to land on me. But ofcourse, they do. They always do.

A group of girls passed by me, their arms linked, their voices a little too loud. "Who wears full sleeves in this heat?", one of them whispers, not so discreetly, and the others started giggling. One of them glanced at me, and said, "Maybe she got something to hide."

My steps falter, dozen of replies rise to my throat- sharp, defensive but none escape. Instead, I grip my notebook tighter and walk faster. That's how I've always been.

I found my classroom and sat at the very back. Some students glanced at me, but they quickly lost interest, their attention drawn to old friends or making new ones. As their gaze drifted away, I exhaled slowly, realizing I had been holding my breath for who knows how long.

When the lecture began, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I looked in that direction, and saw a girl staring at me, but she quickly looked away when our eyes met. I tried to brush it off, but when she started staring again a little later, I felt a surge of discomfort. I pulled my sleeves down further and hid my face with my hair, desperate to avoid being seen.

After two long lectures, I escaped to the library. The campus library is massive, with towering shelves and the faint, comforting scent of papers. It's quieter here, the kind of quiet that soothes my frayed nerves.

I took a corner seat by the window, where the sunlight was bright and the university garden was at view. Sliding into the chair, I opened my sketchbook.

Sketching and painting have always been my refuge. Because lines, shapes, colours don't judge me. They don't care about the ugly patches my skin holds.

On paper, I can create my own world, untouched by cruel, judging eyes and the whispers of those who make me feel inferior because of my skin. My pencil moved effortlessly, forming the college building and then shading it. Each stroke steadied me, drowning me to a place where no insecurity stood.

Even here in the library, students looked at me and ignored. I'm used to it by now, but still the restlessness still lingered, a nagging thought that maybe college would be different. Maybe people here would be mature enough to understand that vitiligo isn't a contagious disease. Maybe they'll see me, not my skin. Maybe I could try to fit in instead of hiding. But, the moment these thoughts start growing, I stop them because hope is a luxury I can't afford. Not when I know people always see me differently.

I glanced at the other tables. Students gathered in groups, whispering, sharing notes or scrolling on their phones. None of them spares me a second look, and for once, I'm grateful to be invisible.

Yet, deep down a pang of longing remained. I just don't want to blend into the background. I want someone to see me. Someone to understand me. Someone to see beyond the long sleeves and realize who Vanya truly is. But I also know this dream will never be true, because such dreams are too big for someone like me.

I shifted my focus back to my sketchbook and started shading the building I had drawn. Outside, the campus was buzzing with life, but inside me, there's only silence. And maybe that's enough- it has to be.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. I quickly packed my things, eager to escape before the library fills again. As I rise, my reflection catches faintly in the glass pane of the window. Dark brown eyes, nervous but determined. Long black hair blowing in the wind. Skin marked by pale patches. My throat tightens, and I look away.

"Please", I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible, "let this year be different". It wasn't a demand or a prayer, just a fragile wish.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and walk out of the library. I kept moving, step after step, my heart steadying itself with the rhythm of survival.

And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, that fragile wish lingers, refusing to die. Maybe, just maybe this time it won't be about hiding. And maybe it will be about being found.