Entering adolescence, the time when my self-awareness began to step into my life, I became very sensitive to my appearance. My skin, scarred by the persistent presence of acne, held an eerie resemblance with the unsmooth surface of rugged and rocky sand revealed after the tides were pulled away.

Even while trying my best to avoid any possible direct eye contact, I couldn’t escape an ignorant 5th-grade classmate staring at my face for the 100th time and asking, "Is your face sick? Do you even wash your face?" My classmates’ laughter echoed in my ears, and each chuckle a dagger to my self-esteem. The world seemed to blur, and the heat of embarrassment climbed up my cheeks, turning them scarlet. My heart pounded with a mixture of shame and sadness. 

Is my skin looking that bad? How do I look standing in front of them? My humiliation and insecurity were devouring me, tearing me to pieces. I wanted to find somewhere to hide, but my skin seemed to be festering, pus-filled, and turning into a horror movie bloodbath. I couldn’t move, not even to step out of the classroom. I desperately wanted to glare menacingly at my classmates who were mocking me, but my eyes had already betrayed me, welling up with tears uncontrollably. Any slightest movement would have exposed my vulnerability.

The alarm for class rang and dispersed the crowd that surrounded me. I heaved a sigh of relief, and a crystal-clear teardrop descended, tracing its path across my bumpy, acne-adorned face.