My childhood was a script someone else wrote—smiles, choreography, and silence where questions should’ve been. I don’t remember my parents as people, only as managers: always present, never there. They shaped me like a product, polishing rough edges until I shined just right for the spotlight. I did attend school, technically, but I never really fit, not when every lunch break was a rehearsal and every friendship a liability. The other kids saw the commercials, the stage lights, the glitter. They didn’t see the hours in front of mirrors, or the way my name felt more like a brand than a self. I learned early that applause is the loneliest kind of affection, loud, fleeting, and always conditional. So I stopped reaching for belonging and started preparing for something more permanent: control. Fitting in was never the goal. Being unforgettable, that was the real assignment. And I will achieve it no matter what.