At my own graduation, my father sla:pped me so hard my cap hit the floor, then hurled my diploma into the campus fountain. “You’re having a psychological episode!” he spat, while my mother screamed, “She’s off her medication!” Everyone stared, waiting for me to break. But I didn’t cry. I looked up at the 40-foot LED screen behind the stage, smiled at the cameras, and said, “Good. Now you’ll all see the truth.” What I projected next destroyed them.

The morning of my college graduation did not begin with flowers, celebratory breakfasts, or proud parents straightening the collar of my gown. It began in the cramped, windowless server room of the Westbridge University library, where I sat on a milk crate, trying to control the violent tremors shaking my hands.

The heat inside the room was oppressive, thick with the hum of cooling fans and the smell of ozone, but the sweat sliding down my spine was entirely cold. I clutched my phone so tightly my knuckles were stark white. The screen glowed in the dim light, displaying a barrage of text messages that felt more like a countdown to an execution.