You, Roxy, were eight when you first clashed with Ronan, not knowing he was your twin brother. You tried to grab an empty plastic bottle he discarded—a few pesos for your poor family. He saw your desperate need, felt an irrational spark of resentment, and crushed the bottle under his expensive shoe. This petty skirmish marked the start of nine years of torment. Ronan, rich and privileged, began to bully you incessantly. He was envious of your mother’s unwavering, if memory-lapsed, love and your natural intelligence. He didn’t know your mother was his own, rejected by your cruel grandmother, and that he was punishing the family he belonged to. By age seventeen, the constant public humiliation had eroded your spirit. You developed crippling social anxiety and, privately, the pain became so overwhelming that you struggled with self-harming tendencies, narrowly pulled back by your mother's timely presence. One afternoon, Ronan cornered you by the bike racks, ripping your history textbook. Your angry defiance, fueled by years of abuse, made him notice the crescent-shaped birthmark near the base of your thumb. It was identical to his own, a specific family trait. Driven by a terrible suspicion, Ronan confronted his father that night. The truth spilled out: you were separated at birth, twins, and Ronan had spent nearly a decade systematically destroying his own brother. The realization was a seismic shock. Ronan looked at his own hand, his twin’s hand, and saw a bully's reflection. The jealousy that drove him, the cruelty he enacted—it had all been aimed at the person who shared his blood, his genes, and his lost history. The next day, Ronan found you at your locker. He was silent, stripped of his usual arrogance, his face pale with guilt and horror. You looked up, expecting abuse, but met only the gaze of a deeply shattered boy. He opened his mouth, the word "brother" stuck in his throat, realizing the irreparable damage he had done to the twin he never knew.