The silk ribbon I cherished was tarnished like ash. 

  It was my birthday. My mother gifted me a silk ribbon to go with my favourite dress. The sun set a mellow glow on it, revealing its rosy, gentle hue. To me, it wasn’t just a ribbon - it was what I loved, it was exactly who I am. I tied my hair up with it, wore the dress and went to school.

  At school, people exchanged glances with me, narrowed eyes shooting arrows in my way. They lowered their voices as I walked by, whispering as if they were sharing a secret. I knew I would be judged for dressing like this - a dress cuffed with frills, an extravagant ribbon gripping onto my long hair. I tried to muster a smile, but my eyes gradually drifted to the floor, my back slouched, my voice hesitant.

  A dim silhouette was pondering at the end of the corridor, wielding a pair of scissors, glistening in the dark.

  My eyes were infiltrated with fear, yet I had no room to think. His voice was hoarse, his face twisted into a dark smile. He gripped onto my hair, tugging on it like his life depended on it. He raised his scissors, and cut my long, luscious locks off. The ribbon, once tied onto my hair, was now frayed, drifted onto the ground, being trampled on by them, tarnished in bright daylight.

  “A boy has no right to be this girly.”

  Words from their mouth sliced me like knives, leaving a wound that has yet to heal.

  That day, I ran from them. My dress was torn, tears couldn’t even leave my eyes - the pain was simply too much to bear. I yearned for someone to love me the way I was, yet I was torn down by judgement.

  I didn’t retrieve the ribbon until after school. The ribbon, now frayed and soiled, was sitting on the ground, waiting for me. It was still soft to the touch, yet it felt different - like a scar. I brought it with me, as a testament to what I’ve been through.

  After that day, I stopped going to school. Staying in my room, it felt empty. In the break of silence, I left my room. A gentle figure, her back facing me, was mending my dress piece by piece. No matter how much they try to bring me down, I know there’s someone always supporting me.

  I took out my ribbon, the scenes of their hatred, the memories of my pain, were still relooping like a broken record. 

  Still holding the ribbon, I realised it was still silky at its core, untouched beneath the dirt, intact despite being crushed. It was resilient, just like me.

  I couldn’t change their world, but I could refuse to have them change mine.

  The silk ribbon is no longer pretty as it was before. It is frayed, soiled, tarnished… Yet, it is powerful. It is mine.