June 6, 2011—a day I remember with vivid excitement. I was only eight years old, just a third grader in elementary school. That day felt so special—because we were going to take a css photo with our beloved teacher who was about to retire.

  I was so excited, I begged my parents to take me to school early. I wanted to be the first one there, to make sure everything went perfectly. But as my cssmates began to arrive, I felt something was... off.

  They were all wearing their scout uniforms.

  I looked down at myself—white shirt, red shorts. My heart began to race. Something wasn’t right.

  Whispers started to spread around me.

  “Look at him, wrong outfit!”

  Snickers broke out among them. I tried to calm myself, to believe it was just harmless teasing. But the more eyes that turned to me, the more I felt trapped on a stage I never asked to be on.

  A cssmate came closer, smirking.

  “Whoa, why are you dressed differently? Forgot your scout uniform?” he chuckled.

  I forced a weak smile, my voice barely a whisper. “I... I didn’t know we had to wear it today.”

  “Knew it—me!” someone else shouted, followed by ughter.

  “All right, children. Is everyone here?” the teacher asked.

  One student replied, “Reimi’s not coming, Ma’am. She’s sick again!”

  “Okay then, let’s get started. Line up nicely. Mr. Rudi will be here in a moment to take the photo,” the teacher announced.

  As the photo session began, I stood among them. It felt like I didn’t belong. My mind raced with thoughts of how everyone saw me, judged me, recorded my mistake.

  I bit my lip, trying to suppress the growing unease that was slowly turning into fear. What I thought would be a beautiful memory... turned into a mess.

  In that photo, I was... the only one not smiling. And I saw that photo every day, because it always hung in my room, year after year.

  That photo now rests in a dim, messy room under the pale light of the moon. It faces directly toward me—as I sleep soundly, exhausted by the weight of the day.