From the moment she could remember, all she ever wanted was love. Not riches, not praise, not success—just the warmth of her family’s affection. But in her home, warmth was a stranger. Her parents’ eyes rarely softened when they looked at her, their voices rarely lifted for her sake. Their laughter, their tenderness, their pride—all of it belonged to someone else: her younger sister.

That little sister had everything the girl ever dreamed of. The new dresses, the bright toys, the gentle hands brushing her hair. Most of all, the love. Love that never seemed to spill over to the older one, no matter how much she reached for it.

So she learned to reach differently. To rebel, to go against the rules, to stir trouble—anything that would make her family turn their eyes toward her. But what she earned in return was not the love she craved, only anger, beatings, and sharper words than any child deserved.

School was no escape. Her grades fell behind, not because she lacked the will to study, but because her heart was too heavy. How could she focus on numbers and words when her mind repeated the same desperate prayer—just one percent of the love they give my sister… only a little piece for me?

Every night, one question circled endlessly in her head: Does my family love me at all? Or do they only have one daughter—the younger one?

When she was ten, a moment came that shattered her fragile hope forever.

Because of her poor marks, she was sent to tuition. The teacher there was a strict man, more cruel than kind. Mistakes were punishable offenses. Sometimes he struck her, sometimes he locked her in a dark room to cry alone until he deemed she had “learned her lesson.”

One day, after a test full of errors, her punishment was harsher. Hands tied, shoved into a pitch-black room, she sat trembling for hours. At first,, she cried softly, but soon she went silent, her small body folding into the corner. Only when she heard footsteps, and the teacher’s voice did she break—falling to her knees, begging:

“I’m sorry! I won’t make mistakes again. Please, I’m sorry!”

Her parents arrived late, demanding to know why she had not come home. The teacher casually told them it was her punishment.

When the door opened, and she saw her father, her heart leapt. He’s here. He’ll protect me now.

She clung to that thought as they took her home. But instead of comfort, she received scolding. Instead of protection, blame. They didn’t ask about her tears or her fear. They only reminded her it was her fault for being careless in studies.

That night, she cried until her voice was gone. And when she woke, the dark was no longer just dark—it was a monster that haunted her forever.

The next day, when her mother ordered her back to tuition, she heard something deep inside whisper:

It’s enough. You tried. Take rest. There’s a world outside this house where love exists. You deserve happiness, not chains. You are brave.

For the first time, she resisted. When her mother insisted, she panicked, bolted from the house, and ran. Hours later, her parents found her, trembling but unyielding. After that day, she never went back to that tuition.

She grew into a girl with two faces. At school, she was brave, lively, quick to make friends and lend a hand. At home, she was still the shadow, the unwanted child.

In her younger years, she was known as the brave one—fearless, openhearted, and always ready to welcome new friends. Helping others came naturally to her. Her laughter was the kind that could fill an empty corridor, and for a while, life at school seemed simple.

But everything began to change in sixth grade.

It started as a joke among her classmates—an ugly rumor that she was “a boy” or that she had some kind of affair with one. At first, she was angry. She confronted them, her voice trembling with both fury and hurt. But the more she tried to explain, the less they cared. Their whispers grew louder, more venomous.

Confused and overwhelmed, she turned to her cousin brother, the one she trusted most. She told him everything, every cutting word, every cruel laugh. He listened quietly and then said with calm certainty:

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

Relief washed over her. For the first time in weeks, she felt reassured. She let herself believe that the burden would no longer be hers alone to carry.

But the rumor refused to die. It spread faster, darker, until it finally reached the ears of the school principal. One day, she was summoned, only to find her parents waiting, faces hard with suspicion. The principal explained the situation, but instead of defending their daughter, her parents turned against her.

“You’ve brought shame,” they said.

Her heart froze. She tried to explain. “I have nothing to do with this. My classmates made it up! I told my cousin brother about it—”

But when they turned to him, he shook his head.

“She never told me anything.”

The words cut her deeper than any insult. She stared at him in disbelief. “I did! I told you everything—why are you lying?”

Before she could finish, a sharp sting struck her cheek. The room went silent. Slowly, she turned her head, stunned. The hand that had slapped her belonged not to her mother, but to her mother’s cousin—the woman she had always adored, the woman she thought of as her second mother.

“That’s enough,” the woman said coldly. “First, you disgrace yourself. Now you try to drag your cousin into your mess?”

The girl sat in silence, tears burning in her eyes. Something inside her cracked that day. It wasn’t just the slap. It was the betrayal, the disbelief, the sudden, brutal shattering of trust.

It was the insult to her dignity.

From then on, school was no longer a place of learning but a battlefield she never won. Each day she walked with her head lowered, enduring whispers that stung worse than stones. A year passed, but the torment didn’t fade. The insults only grew sharper.

“She flirts with everyone,” they sneered.

Her family, once her refuge, now echoed the world’s cruel judgment. They warned her to keep her distance—even from her own cousins.

“Control yourself,” they told her.

But she wondered—what was there to control? Why did everyone misunderstand her? Why was she always at fault?

Loneliness became her only companion. She moved to a new school, but fear followed. The rumors haunted her, an invisible chain around her heart. She kept her distance from everyone, convinced that silence was safer than trust, solitude safer than betrayal.

And yet, silence brought no peace.

At night, a question circled endlessly in her mind: Do I even deserve to live after all this?

Once a cheerful, sociable girl, she now lived behind walls. But the pain festered. Rebellion sparked in her chest. If they saw her as a bad girl, then perhaps she would become one.

She started pulling pranks. Talking back. Laughing loudly where they told her to be quiet. Breaking the rules her parents clung to.

It was not joy that drove her, but defiance. If the world insisted on seeing her as guilty, then guilty she would be.

And just like that, the brave, cheerful girl who once dreamed Of friendships was gone.

In her place stood a stranger—angry, reckless, and broken.