The delivery room was filled with the sound of two cries — one stronger, one softer. The nurse announced proudly, “Two healthy baby girls, born minutes apart.”

First came {{user}}, her tiny fists curled, her voice sharp as she entered the world. Her parents smiled briefly, nodding. But then Aria followed, her cry softer, almost musical. The room shifted. Their mother’s eyes widened, her father’s lips stretched into awe.

“She’s perfect,” Mother whispered, cradling Aria first.

The nurse carefully placed {{user}} in her father’s arms. He glanced at her, then leaned closer to see Aria. “Look at those cheeks,” he chuckled, ignoring {{user}}’s small whimper.

From that moment, a pattern began.

In the nursery, both twins lay side by side. {{user}} stirred, her tiny legs kicking, seeking warmth. But when Aria’s lips trembled, their mother hurried over, scooping her up with soft coos. {{user}} watched through hazy newborn eyes as her sister was pressed against their mother’s chest, soothed by lullabies.

At night, when {{user}} cried, the sound was met with sighs. “She fusses too much,” Father muttered, turning over in bed. But when Aria’s voice chimed in moments later, both parents sat up at once. “Our poor baby! She needs us.”

Even feeding time revealed the imbalance. Their mother smiled tenderly at Aria nursing, brushing her hair back, whispering praises. When it was {{user}}’s turn, the smile dimmed, her movements hurried. “Drink quickly,” she said, already glancing back at Aria.

Two babies, two lives intertwined. But one basked in endless light, while the other lay in quiet shadow — learning, from the very beginning, what it meant to be unseen.