Everyone wants to know.

The comments. The DMs. The interview requests I ignore. Every single day, the same questions:

"What happened to your skin?"
"Is it real?"
"Are you sick?"
"Where are you from?"
"Who are your parents?"

You watch me dance. You double-tap. You share. You think you know me because you've seen my body move in 60-second clips.

You don't know anything.

You don't know where I was born. You don't know why my mother cried when she first saw my skin. You don't know what the doctors told her to do — or why she refused.

You don't know about my father. What he did. Where he went. Why I didn't hear his voice for fourteen years.

You don't know about the photos. The locker room. The sound I still hear in my nightmares. Click. Click. Click.

You don't know why I started dancing. It wasn't for fame. It wasn't for beauty. It was the only way I found to survive in a body the world won't stop staring at.

You've seen the girl with two faces.

You've never heard her speak.

Until now.