#left out

Growing up, the world felt like a party you were never invited to. You'd stand by the fence, watching the other children squeal with delight as they chased each other through sun-drenched fields, their bright clothes a blur against the green. Sometimes, you'd even hear their parents call out, "Come join us, everyone!" – everyone, that is, except for you. Birthday invitations, vibrant and promising, would circulate through school, passed hand-to-hand with whispered excitement. Your name, however, was never on them. You'd see your classmates gathered in hushed circles, planning sleepovers and beach trips, their eyes sparkling with shared secrets, and a leaden weight would settle in your chest, a silent acknowledgment that you weren't part of their "we." You remembered the sting of watching from your bedroom window as the house next door, usually quiet, erupted with light and laughter, spilling out into the twilight as a dozen kids celebrated. You were close enough to hear the pop of balloons and the happy shouts, but a chasm away from being included.

The loneliness of being an outsider was a constant companion, but it was the cruelty that truly carved its mark. The playground, a place of joyful freedom for others, was often a minefield for you. You'd feel a sudden, jarring shove from behind, sending you sprawling into the dirt, your knees scraped and your pride bruised, only to hear snickers and see retreating backs. During dodgeball, the balls always seemed to find you, thrown with an unnatural force and a malicious glint in the eyes of your peers, leaving you red and aching. Once, a group surrounded you, chanting taunts about your appearance, their words sharp little knives that pricked at your skin and burrowed deep into your spirit. Another time, you found your schoolbag emptied, its contents scattered and trampled in a muddy puddle, a cruel joke played while you were in class. The worst was the silence that followed these acts—the way adults often looked away, or offered platitudes that felt hollow, leaving you to nurse your wounds alone. Each deliberate exclusion, each harsh word, each malicious act chipped away at your sense of worth, leaving you with the quiet conviction that you were inherently different, inherently flawed, and destined to navigate the world as a solitary ship in a vast, uncaring ocean. But even then, a flicker of defiance remained, a tiny spark of longing for a place where you truly belonged, a place you would one day find.

The ache of being an outsider wasn't confined to schoolyards and neighborhood gatherings; it seeped into the very foundations of your home. Family dinners, meant to be warm and bustling, often felt like another stage for your quiet exclusion. You'd sit at the table, a phantom limb in the lively conversation, listening to your cousins recount their adventures, their shared secrets and inside jokes flying over your head like birds you couldn't quite catch. When board games came out, you were always the odd one out, the extra person. "We have enough players," a family member might say, not unkindly, but firmly, leaving you to watch from the periphery, the colorful pieces and excited shouts a world away.

Even the simple act of choosing teams for a backyard game of catch became a stark reminder. Your name was consistently the last called, if it was called at all. You’d stand there, hands shoved in your pockets, a knot forming in your stomach, as the excited chatter died down and an awkward silence filled the air, until someone, usually an adult, would sigh and say, "Oh, right, Y/N can be on my team, I guess." The reluctant tone, the lingering glance that suggested you were more of a burden than a teammate, cut deeper than any outright insult. You learned to occupy yourself, to retreat into books or solitary walks, finding solace in the quiet companionship of your own thoughts, because the alternative—the constant, subtle rejection—was far more painful. You were present, yes, but never truly included, always an asterisk in the family narrative, a quiet figure in the background of their vibrant lives.

The transition from a life lived on the fringes to the boisterous, vibrant chaos of the Straw Hat Pirates hadn't been seamless, but it had been, unequivocally, the most profound shift of your life. Just a few months ago, you were a solitary figure on the bustling, pirate-infested island of Tortuga Grande, your skills as a quartermaster a sharp, honed edge born of necessity and a lifetime of self-reliance. You kept to yourself, managing your sparse resources with meticulous precision, always aware of your surroundings, always ready for trouble.

It found you, as it often did, in the form of a particularly nasty gang of local thugs who mistook your quiet demeanor for weakness. They cornered you in a narrow alley, their sneering faces promising pain, but they clearly hadn't accounted for your years of fighting for every scrap of dignity and survival. You moved with a practiced, almost brutal efficiency, deflecting blows, finding openings, and taking them down one by one. You weren't flashy, just effective, each movement deliberate, each strike purposeful.

As the last thug lay groaning, a shadow fell over you. You tensed, ready for another fight, but what you saw made you freeze. A young man with a wide, infectious grin and a straw hat was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes shining with an almost childlike wonder. Behind him stood a diverse, equally stunned crew – a green-haired swordsman, a navigator with a fierce glint in her eye, a long-nosed sharpshooter, a blonde chef, a talking reindeer, a quiet archaeologist, a cyborg, and a skeleton.

"SUGOI!" the straw-hatted captain, Monkey D. Luffy, bellowed, his voice echoing in the alley. "You're amazing! Join my crew!"

You blinked, utterly unaccustomed to such direct, unbridled enthusiasm, let alone a genuine invitation. Your usual response to social interaction was a carefully constructed wall of polite distance, a reflex born from years of rejection. You mumbled something about preferring to work alone, your gaze flickering from his earnest face to the curious, hopeful expressions of his crew.

But Luffy was relentless. He pressed closer, his eyes practically sparkling. "Please! We need a quartermaster like you! Someone who knows how to keep everything in order, who can fight like that! We need you, Y/N!"

The words hung in the air: "We need you." It was a simple phrase, yet it resonated deep within you, touching a part of your soul that had been starved for warmth and acceptance your entire life. No one had ever begged you to join anything before. No one had ever looked at your abilities and declared them necessary. It was the first time you felt truly, unequivocally wanted. The years of being the last pick, the overlooked one, the person no one considered, melted away under the force of Luffy's genuine plea.

You hesitated for only a moment, then, a tentative smile gracing your lips for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you nodded. "Alright," you said, your voice a little softer than you intended. "I'll join."

And you have been with them ever since. The Thousand Sunny became your home, its deck a place where the awkwardness that still sometimes clung to you in social situations slowly began to dissipate. You still found yourself fumbling for words, or retreating into quiet observation during boisterous conversations, a lingering echo of your solitary past. But with the Straw Hats, it was different. Here, your quietness wasn't met with pity or disdain, but with understanding, and sometimes, even a gentle prod to join in. For the first time, you were not just present, but a vital, cherished part of something bigger than yourself.

You were on the Thousand Sunny, among them, yet a whisper in the back of your mind constantly questioned: were you truly there? The open deck, bathed in sunlight and laughter, was a stark contrast to the shadowy corners you’d always inhabited. The Straw Hats were everything the people from your past were not. They didn't just tolerate you; they welcomed you with open arms, their smiles genuine, their invitations to join games and conversations sincere. Luffy would practically drag you into whatever chaotic fun he'd concocted, Zoro would offer a rare, gruff nod of acknowledgment as you passed, Nami would consult you on supplies, Usopp would try to impress you with his tall tales, Sanji would fuss over your meals, Chopper would worry if you seemed quiet, Robin would share a knowing smile over a book, Franky would include you in his "Super!" exclamations, and even Brook would ask if you'd like to hear a song.

This overwhelming, unconditional acceptance was, paradoxically, terrifying. It was a warmth you hadn't experienced, and its intensity felt scalding, dangerous. Your entire life, you'd built an intricate fortress around your heart, brick by brick, from every slight, every exclusion, every time you were deemed "not enough." You knew how to survive in the cold, how to endure being pushed away. But you had absolutely no idea how to exist in a space filled with such genuine warmth.

So, out of habit and a deep-seated fear of being hurt again, you pushed yourself away. When Nami invited you to a game of cards, you'd politely decline, mumbling about needing to check inventory. When Luffy wanted you to join a silly dance party on deck, you'd find an urgent chore in the galley. You kept your meals separate sometimes, opting for the quiet solitude of the crow's nest rather than the boisterous main table. You’d offer logistical advice during battles but rarely engaged in the pre-fight banter. You were always just outside the circle, observing, contributing when necessary, but never fully immersing yourself.

They weren't like the others, the ones who had left you out, who had made you feel invisible. That was precisely why it was so petrifying. Because if you let them in, if you allowed yourself to truly feel this belonging, what if it was all just a mirage? What if, one day, they would realize their mistake, or find you lacking, and the familiar, crushing weight of rejection would descend once more, but this time, from a height you couldn't possibly survive? Better, your bruised heart reasoned, to keep a safe distance, to remain detached, to leave yourself out before anyone else had the chance to. The irony wasn't lost on you; you were doing to yourself what others had always done to you, simply to protect a heart that had never learned to trust kindness.

The ingrained habit of self-exclusion was a shadow that clung to you, even under the bright sun of the Grand Line. It was a subtle, almost unconscious act, born from a lifetime of anticipating rejection. You didn't just feel like you were intruding; you genuinely believed it was what others expected, what they preferred. It was the only social dynamic you had ever truly known.

This pattern manifested in countless small ways, moments that might have seemed innocuous to an outsider, but to you, were deeply rooted in your past. When the Thousand Sunny would drop anchor near a vibrant, bustling island, the crew would erupt in excited chatter, plotting their shore leave adventures. Luffy would declare he was going to find the biggest meat, Usopp would plan his souvenir shopping, Nami would eye the local market, and Sanji would dream of exotic ingredients. As they gathered by the gangplank, a wave of familiar anxiety would wash over you. You'd find yourself stepping back, subtly, almost imperceptibly, from the excited cluster.

"I can stay behind and keep an eye on the ship," you'd offer, your voice calm and steady, but inside, a quiet apprehension fluttered. "Someone needs to make sure everything's secure, and it'll give me a chance to re-inventory the supplies."

Your reasoning was always logical, practical, even helpful, but the underlying motive was the deep-seated conviction that you would be an imposition. Why force yourself into their joyful expeditions, you reasoned, when they clearly formed a cohesive unit without you? Your mind conjured echoes of past exclusions: school trips you weren't invited to, family outings where you were always the extra wheel. It was easier, safer, to volunteer for the solitary task, to proactively remove yourself from the equation before you could be left out. You imagined their unspoken relief, a slight easing of their collective shoulders that you weren't tagging along, even though their faces only ever showed genuine concern or gentle confusion.

Sometimes, Chopper, with his innocent empathy, would tilt his head. "But Y/N, don't you want to explore? There might be new medicines!" Or Usopp might scratch his head, "But who's gonna listen to my amazing tales of exploration if you're stuck on the ship?" Luffy, in his usual direct manner, might simply whine, "But Y/N, it's more fun with you!"

Their reactions were never what your internal narrative predicted. They didn't sigh with relief; they genuinely seemed to want you there. This kindness, however, only amplified your internal conflict. It was like they were speaking a language you only partially understood, a language of unconditional acceptance that your childhood had never taught you. So, you'd offer a small, polite smile, reiterate your commitment to ship duties, and watch them depart, the lively sounds of their receding footsteps leaving you with the familiar, yet increasingly unsettling, silence of the empty ship. You were safe from rejection, but also, frustratingly, safe from the very connection you secretly craved.

The Straw Hats, in their own unique and wonderfully chaotic way, weren't oblivious. They noticed your quiet retreats, your polite refusals, the subtle ways you kept a sliver of distance between yourself and their boisterous camaraderie. They worried, not with judgment, but with a genuine concern that stemmed from their deep-seated belief in the power of nakama. They were a crew built on forging unbreakable bonds, and the sight of you, silently excluding yourself, stirred a fierce determination within them. They wouldn't let you stay on the outside looking in.

Luffy, ever the direct and unwavering force of nature, often tackled your self-imposed barriers head-on. If you offered to stay on the ship, he'd pout dramatically, then declare, "No way, Y/N! You're coming with us! It's boring without you!" Sometimes, he'd simply grab your wrist and drag you along, his infectious enthusiasm making it impossible to argue. He didn't understand the nuances of your anxiety; he just knew he wanted his friend there.

Zoro, in his gruff, understated manner, would sometimes lean against a mast near you when you were observing from a distance. He rarely spoke, but his presence was a quiet, steady anchor. On occasion, he'd simply hand you a sake cup during a celebration, or nod towards the ongoing festivities, a silent invitation to join that spoke volumes. He understood solitude, but he also recognized the difference between chosen peace and enforced isolation.

Nami, ever perceptive, often approached with a more strategic touch. If you were meticulously checking supplies, she might join you, starting a conversation about inventory that subtly veered into plans for their next adventure. "We're thinking of checking out the market for some new fabrics, Y/N. Your eye for detail would be really helpful," she'd say, framing inclusion as a practical necessity, knowing that appealed to your methodical nature.

Sanji, the ever-chivalrous chef, used food as his weapon of choice. He'd bring you specially prepared snacks or drinks when you were holed up in the crow's nest or poring over maps. "A lady needs her nourishment!" he'd declare, his exaggerated charm a thinly veiled excuse to draw you closer to the warmth of the galley and the crew's chatter. He'd notice if you hadn't eaten with the others and subtly ensure you got a plate.

Usopp, despite his own timidities, was surprisingly bold in his attempts. He'd try to lure you into his games or storytelling sessions, sometimes even creating a specific role for you. "Y/N, the brave quartermaster, would know exactly how to defeat this sea monster!" he'd announce, hoping to spark a response, or at least a chuckle, that would draw you into the narrative. He understood the power of being acknowledged.

Chopper, with his boundless empathy, worried visibly. He'd often approach you with genuine concern, his large eyes filled with kindness. "Are you feeling okay, Y/N? You seem a little distant. Is there anything hurting?" he'd ask, his medical instincts kicking in, but his true aim was always to connect, to make sure you knew someone cared.

Robin, with her quiet wisdom and keen observation, was perhaps the most understanding. She never pushed, but she often positioned herself near you, offering a comfortable silence. Sometimes, she'd simply share a book, or a knowing glance when one of the others was being particularly boisterous, a silent acknowledgment of your shared appreciation for quieter moments, and a subtle invitation to her company.

Franky, in his boisterous, "SUUUUPER!" way, tried to include you in his creative projects. "Hey, Y/N, you've got a sharp eye for detail! Come check out my new invention! Your input would make it even more SUPER!" he'd exclaim, hoping to engage your practical skills and draw you into the energy of his workshop.

And then there was Brook, who, with his unique blend of humor and heartfelt sincerity, might play a melancholic tune that resonated with your quiet nature, or offer a simple, "Yohohoho! A beautiful day for some company, wouldn't you agree, Y/N-san?" He understood the nuances of longing and connection, even in silence.

They were a whirlwind of personalities, each one chipping away at the walls you had meticulously built, not with force, but with unwavering kindness and a fierce, unspoken promise: You belong here.

Despite their varied approaches, the Straw Hats' consistent efforts began to chip away at your carefully constructed defenses. It wasn't an immediate crumbling, but rather a slow erosion, like waves against a fortified cliff. You still found yourself offering to stay behind on islands, but now, when Luffy would simply grab your arm and declare, "Let's go, Y/N! There's an awesome market with weird hats!" you found it harder to resist. His sheer, unadulterated will often bypassed your mental walls before you could even formulate an excuse. You might still feel a flicker of anxiety as you stepped onto the bustling streets, but you were there.

Zoro's quiet presence became less of an unspoken challenge and more of a comforting anchor. One evening, after a particularly chaotic day on an island, you found yourself sitting near him on the deck, watching the stars. He simply handed you a small bottle of sake. "Good day, Quartermaster," he grunted, taking a swig from his own. It wasn't a conversation, but it was shared space, a quiet acceptance that spoke louder than any words. You took a sip, the warmth spreading through you, realizing you hadn't felt so at ease in a long time.

Nami's tactical invitations slowly morphed into genuine shared moments. You'd find yourself brainstorming supply routes with her, and the conversation would organically drift to her latest fashion finds or her dreams of drawing a world map. You even started offering your own observations, not just practical ones, but sometimes a quiet comment about the beauty of a new port, or a funny anecdote from the island. She'd listen, genuinely interested, her eyes sparkling, and for the first time, you felt not just heard, but valued for your perspective.

Sanji's culinary efforts, initially met with your polite, distant gratitude, eventually broke through your reserve with sheer deliciousness. He'd catch you sketching in your notebook and bring you a specially brewed tea, commenting on your drawing with an encouraging smile. "A true artist needs proper sustenance, Y/N-chan!" he'd croon. One afternoon, he managed to coax you into teaching him a new knot you knew for securing cargo, turning a practical lesson into a shared, lighthearted exchange.

Usopp, with his boisterous tales, slowly drew you into his world of exaggerated adventure. He'd corner you and launch into a story, and while you'd initially just listen, you eventually found yourself interjecting with a question or a skeptical "Really, Usopp?" which he'd take as an invitation to embellish further. He'd even start asking for your input on his inventions, clearly valuing your methodical thinking, which surprised you every time.

Chopper's innocent concern was perhaps the most disarming. He'd pat your arm gently, "Are you feeling better, Y/N? I made you some special herbal tea." His unwavering belief in your well-being, his simple, pure desire for you to be happy and healthy, made it harder to maintain your emotional distance. You found yourself confiding in him about small things, like a headache or a minor worry, because he genuinely listened without judgment.

Robin's quiet understanding became a cherished comfort. She never pried, but her presence was a constant, gentle invitation. You'd often find her in the library, and you'd slowly gravitate towards her, picking up a book yourself. Sometimes, you'd exchange silent smiles, or she'd point out an interesting passage, and you'd find yourselves in a calm, intellectual discussion, a shared space where your natural introversion felt not like a flaw, but a comfortable aspect of your personality.

Franky's enthusiasm was impossible to fully ignore. He’d proudly show off new modifications to the Sunny, expecting your feedback. "Y/N, check out this SUPER new cannon! What do you think of the trajectory calculations?" he'd bellow. His genuine excitement for his creations, and his desire to share it with you, slowly chipped away at your need to stay aloof, pulling you into his boisterous world, even if just to offer a quiet, "Looks efficient, Franky."

And Brook, with his unique blend of music and morbid humor, often found a way to connect. He'd sometimes play a soulful melody that resonated with the quiet parts of your heart, or make a joke that made you crack a rare smile. "Yohohoho! You have a lovely laugh, Y/N-san, though I have no eyes to see it!" he'd quip, and for a fleeting moment, the years of feeling unwanted would recede, replaced by the simple, joyful sound of laughter.

You were still Y/N, the one who had spent a lifetime feeling left out. The automatic reflex to withdraw hadn't vanished completely. But now, when you instinctively pulled back, there was always a hand reaching out, a voice calling your name, or a shared glance that said, You're one of us. You belong. And slowly, tentatively, you were beginning to believe it.

The true turning point, the moment the final, stubborn brick of your self-imposed wall truly crumbled, came not in a quiet conversation or a shared laugh, but in the white-knuckle chaos that so often defined the Straw Hats' lives. It was during a furious storm, a sudden, monstrous tempest that descended upon the Thousand Sunny with a vengeful roar. Waves the size of mountains crashed over the deck, the wind shrieked like a banshee, and the ship, usually so sturdy, groaned under the assault.

Everyone was scrambling, fighting against the elements. Zoro was struggling to secure a flailing mast, Sanji was battling to keep the galley from being destroyed, Usopp and Chopper clung to anything solid, terrified. Luffy, though resilient, was momentarily overwhelmed by a rogue wave that swept across the deck. In the midst of the chaos, a massive piece of debris, torn from a passing shipwreck, hurtled towards the main mast, threatening to splinter it and doom the Sunny.

Your quartermaster instincts, honed by a lifetime of anticipating disaster, kicked in with lightning speed. There was no time for hesitation, no room for the quiet politeness that usually dictated your actions. Your past, with its lessons of self-reliance and the urgent need to protect what little you had, merged with your burgeoning loyalty to this crew. With a primal shout, you moved. You grabbed a spare, incredibly strong rope, securing one end to a reinforced cleat. Then, with a burst of strength you didn't know you possessed, you flung the other end with pinpoint accuracy, snagging the debris just as it was about to strike. With a grunt of effort, muscles screaming, you braced yourself, pulling with every fiber of your being, guiding the massive wreckage just wide of the mast, sending it plunging harmlessly into the raging sea.

You collapsed, gasping for breath, your arms trembling. As the immediate danger passed, and the crew slowly regained their footing, their eyes turned to you. There was no casual acknowledgment, no polite nod. Instead, there was a collective, overwhelming surge of gratitude and awe.

Luffy, soaked to the bone but grinning, bounded over and wrapped you in a bone-crushing hug. "Y/N! That was amazing! You saved the Sunny! You saved us!"

Nami, usually composed, ran a hand through her wet hair, a genuine, heartfelt smile on her face. "Y/N, you're incredible! We would have been done for without you!"

Even Zoro offered a rare, genuine grin. "Nice work, Quartermaster. Truly."

In that moment, battered by the storm but surrounded by their raw, unfiltered appreciation, the last vestiges of your protective shell shattered. You saw it in their eyes: not pity, not obligation, but unadulterated relief and profound acceptance. You were not just on the ship; you were part of the ship's survival, an indispensable thread in the tapestry of their crew. The warmth that flooded you wasn't scalding or terrifying anymore; it was a comforting, blazing hearth.

You looked at each of them, truly seeing them not as a group you observed from afar, but as your family. The years of being left out, of feeling unwanted, of anticipating rejection—they didn't vanish, but they receded, becoming distant echoes. You were still Y/N, quiet and methodical, but now, you were also Y/N, the Straw Hat Quartermaster, cherished and undeniably, irrevocably, wanted.