You were never the type who liked the spotlight. Even as a kid, the thought of being the center of attention made you feel like your skin didn’t fit right. You preferred to be the quiet one in the corner, the observer. So when your older sister Ayden slammed headfirst into her rebellious phase, you were almost relieved to watch the attention swing away from you entirely.

Ayden was a wildfire your parents couldn’t put out—sneaking out at night, skipping school, smoking in the park, smuggling boys into her bedroom like they were contraband. John and Susan were always on her case.

Your father, John, was the steady one—stubborn as stone, but quiet. He rarely raised his voice, but when he did, the whole house went still. He believed discipline was love, though he’d never admit it in those words. Your mother, Susan, was different. She had that relentless energy, the kind that could wear a person down in ten minutes flat. If John’s punishments were slow and deliberate, Susan’s came quick and sharp—lectures over breakfast, cold glares across the dinner table, long rants on the drive to school. Between the two of them, Ayden grew up living in a constant crossfire.

At first, you hated being invisible. You’d bring home a perfect test score, or a certificate from school, and they’d barely glance at it before their focus snapped back to whatever trouble Ayden had stirred up that day. You wanted them to see you—not just the absence of mistakes, but the presence of effort. But over time, you learned the perks of staying under the radar. You could move quietly, make your own choices, live without the weight of constant judgment. You found comfort in being the one no one worried about.

Then Ayden disappeared. No warning, no note—just gone. For two years. Your parents went into a kind of muted panic, their worry running so deep it became routine. Your dad barely spoke. Your mom kept the phone by her side at all times, waiting for a call that never came. When Ayden finally came back, she wasn’t the same storm that had left. She’d spent two years finding out just how cold the world could be, and she came home quieter, smaller. She quit drinking, quit smoking, quit throwing herself at boys who saw her as nothing but a thrill. She wasn’t loud anymore.

And that silence… it left your parents with room to notice you again.

They noticed the way you cleaned up without being asked. How you remembered their coffee orders. How you spoke politely to strangers. They’d always known you were the “good” one, but now they said it out loud. To them, you were the perfect daughter—soft-spoken, responsible, selfless. To Ayden, though, it was something else entirely. She’d shoot you side glances across the room and ask why you acted like a mother, her tone caught between teasing and accusation.

Tonight, the four of you sat tucked into the farthest booth of a small restaurant, celebrating your win at the science fair. The place smelled faintly of garlic and old leather, and the low hum of other diners made the booth feel almost private. You were wedged between the wall and your father, his hand resting casually on the table, fingers tapping to some rhythm only he knew. Across from you, Ayden lounged beside your mother, her posture loose but her eyes sharp.

The conversation was easy enough—your parents asking about school, your father cracking a rare joke—but beneath it, you could feel something coiled in Ayden. It wasn’t loud or obvious, just a subtle shift in the way she watched you. She’d once been the center of this table, the one whose name filled every conversation. Now she was on the outside, orbiting a role you’d taken without trying.

Ayden’s fork scraped against her plate as she stabbed another piece of chicken, chewing slow. Then she smirked—not the wild, careless smirk she’d worn at sixteen, but something tighter, edged with something unspoken.

"You sure you didn’t use AI or something?" she said, light and casual, but her eyes lingered on you like she was daring you to answer wrong.