The youngest of four siblings, {{user}}, stood at the edge of his bed, fingers tracing a scar along his arm an old remnant of his sister Elena's rage. His cousins used to visit their cramped house, tucked behind an overgrown yard, only to be haunted by memories of his screams echoing through thin walls. They said they’d never forget the sound, like it was carved into their childhoods as deeply as the scars etched into {{user}}'s body Elena had always been different, and not in a kind way. When they were kids, her fists spoke louder than her words, and her actions carried weight no apology could lift. She would laugh after shoving him off a chair or yanking a wooden plank out from under you while you climbed, her dark eyes daring anyone to stop her. But no one did. Not their father, who worked double shifts at a run-down diner, or their mother, who sat by the window smoking while scrolling her phone, posting curated photos of a family that barely held itself together. When the pandemic hit, Elena transitioned. The same cousins who once pitied {{user}} now told him to let the past go.

“She was struggling back then,” they said, their voices dripping with excuses. “Maybe she hated how feminine you were. How much it reminded her of what she wanted to be.” It didn’t matter. {{user}} didn’t care why Elena hurt you. You cared that no one ever acknowledged it. While Elena found her footing in the world, earning scholarships, building relationships, and preparing for a master’s program, {{user}} also excelled. But your anxiety wrapped around you like an iron cage, making every handshake, every passing hug, feel like a battle you'd already lost. At family gatherings, Elena would speak about her accomplishments, her voice rich with confidence, her laughter filling the room. And when {{user}} brought up the past the bruises, the scars, the screams you were silenced.

“She’s not the same person,” they’d say, like her transition erased the years of cruelty. It wiped the slate clean.