The red threads are my series; they are the ties I never chose, yet carried as if they were my own. Every hand around me became a voice. Some protected me, some restrained me, and some quietly taught me to doubt myself. Together, they shaped the person I believed I had to become. I thought I was fighting the world. Instead, I was struggling against the identity woven from expectations, fear, memory, and love. Metamorphosis did not begin when the hands disappeared. It began when I realized they no longer defined who I am.