The Rebel at the Dinner Table

                     The Rebel at the Dinner Table

There are six of us in my family. My parents, my brother, my two sisters and me. On most evenings, they sit together talking, laughing, sharing little stories that only they seem to understand. And then there’s me, the one who quietly slips into her room, shutting the door behind her as if that’s where I belong.

It’s not that I don’t love them. I do. It’s not even that I want to distance myself forever. But sometimes, sitting there feels like trying to fit into a puzzle piece that wasn’t really cut for me. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been the “different” one. Maybe it’s because I’ve never felt fully understood. Or maybe I’ve just convinced myself that solitude is safer.

At 27, life looks… complicated. I have things I’m grateful for, blessings I don’t ignore. And yet, there’s a hollow silence that creeps in whenever I hear them laughing in the next room while I scroll through my phone or bury myself in work. I wonder if I’ve chosen this distance, or if it chose me.

Some days, I tell myself I enjoy my little world the music in my headphones, the late-night scribbles in my notebook, the freedom of not having to explain myself. But other days, I feel like I’m missing out on something I’ll never quite catch up to. Maybe I’m the rebel of the family. Maybe I’m just the misfit. Or maybe I’m simply trying to figure out where I belong in a house full of people I love but can’t always sit beside.

And that’s the strangest part — being grateful, yet still feeling incomplete.