Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw my parents hate me yet love other kids devotedly. More times than I can count, I have sat on the stairs, watching them laugh and tolerate those kids—their most vulgar language, their unbearable moves—and thought: If only they had poured this love and patience into me. It’s okay if they couldn’t. It was their first time parenting, and I was a “nice kid,” saying nothing over physical abuse and emotional abandonment. But why don’t they do it now? They rarely talk without taunts and hatred, yet they love others.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw my best friend, who claimed to have only me as the closest one, have many other best friends. Being played with words of emotion and betrayed by actions of disgust, life taught me what resentment looked like.I never knew resentment until I saw my close friend slander my name in my absence, turning everyone against me when I was ill and away from college for a longer period. She made new friends, hated me for my grades—until I came back, regained the trust of teachers, and she slowly started sitting with me again. Guess what? I ignored it… and got betrayed again.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I was abused, and instead of believing me, my parents said, It’s in your head. It never happened. And if it did happen, they meant not to hurt you, they mistakenly did it, they respect “us” so they won’t do this to you. How would they know? They hardly spent an hour with me in a day. They never saw the way my hands shook, the way I flinched at sudden sounds, the way silence felt safer than speaking. They never asked why I stopped looking people in the eyes or why my laughter became a quiet, foreign thing. They dismissed it like a dream that never existed—like I never existed.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I watched my pain be romanticized in movies, books, and conversations. People whispered about abuse survivors with soft voices, calling them strong, admiring their endurance, as if suffering was poetry. But when it was me—when I spoke of the nights I spent curled up, when I admitted that my own skin felt like a stranger’s, when I confessed that some days I wished to be nothing—they looked away, uncomfortable. Strength was beautiful in theory, but in reality, it was too loud, too inconvenient, too much.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw people easily apologize to strangers but never to me. My parents, my friends, the ones who hurt me the most—never a sorry, never a word of acknowledgment for my pain. They acted like time was enough to erase wounds, like silence was an apology. But the body remembers. My mind remembers. And every forced smile, every ignored betrayal, every “let it go” only carved the resentment deeper into my bones.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I realized that no matter how much I achieved, it was never enough. I could break myself into a thousand pieces, perfect every flaw, excel in every way they once claimed I couldn’t, and still, they would find something missing. “You could have done better.” “Why aren’t you like them?” “97%, alas! Only if those 3% marks…” Their smiles would instantly fade and turn into a courtroom, asking me why and how I missed that 1%, even if I secured 99%. Why didn’t I top the globe when I secured the national level position. Though I stopped trying to prove myself, but the echoes of their words remained, like ghosts clinging to my reflection, reminding me that I would never be enough for someone. I would never be worthy of love and respect and humanity.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw people love the version of me that was easy to digest. The quiet one. The obedient one. The one who swallowed pain without a word. The moment I became something more—someone with anger, with boundaries, with a voice—they recoiled. “You’ve changed, you have become rebellious, you are impatient, you are inhumane, you can’t compromise.”
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I realized my worth to people existed only in their moments of need. Friends who disappeared for months would suddenly reappear in my inbox with a “Hey, how are you?” …but it was never about me. It was about their assignments, their problems, their messes I was supposed to fix. And I did, every time. But when I needed them? Silence. Excuses. Ghosting. I wasn’t a friend; I was a convenience.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I watched people I once called friends rise in wealth and status, only to look at me with disgust. As if poverty was contagious, as if my presence alone would stain their new polished lives. I never asked for a rupee, never even hinted at needing financial help, but the moment their bank accounts grew, so did the distance between us. They spoke in hushed voices about people who begged for money, about those types—and I knew. I knew they saw me as one of them, even when I had never taken a thing. So, I distanced myself, because they weren’t comfortable with me. Their financial status was above me.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I trusted someone with my pain—years of trust, of late-night confessions, of I’m here for you—only to see my words turned into a joke for the world to laugh at. A post on Facebook, a meme, a Whatsapp status, a casual punchline about that girl who cries in their DMs. As if my vulnerability was entertainment. As if the weight I carried for years was nothing more than something to scroll past. And the worst part? They didn’t even think they did something wrong. They pushed me to be vulnerable, made me believe in them—and when I did, it became their entertainment, a topic to be discussed among tens of thousands of Facebook friends.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw love given freely to those who earned it through trophies and societal approval. I was hugged, praised, adored—but only as long as I brought home medals, certificates, achievements they could display like a prized possession. The moment I stopped? Nothing. No warmth, no arms wrapping around me, no soft whispers of I’m proud of you. I have been touch-starved since I was born. I could win the world and still never win love.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I resented existence itself. My very being. The womb that carried me. The hands that raised me. The body that holds all this hurt, all this memory, all this proof that I was here when I never wanted to be. Some people resent people. Some resent places. I resent being. I resent being here. I resent being in their reality.. I resent being in my reality. I resent not being an illusion. I resent being an actual, living human with a heart, a soul, a body. I resent being existent.
— Sadia Hakim // Letters Unsent