A troubled kid.

That’s what your parents often called you because you never let them dictate your thoughts. They had always wanted you to be the best in school, to achieve the highest accolades, to fit into the mold they had crafted for you. But you never wanted that. You wanted to be normal, to have friends of your choosing—not the ones they picked because they were the children of their friends. It often felt like you were living a life where every decision was made for you, without ever asking what you wanted.

Your sibling was the golden child. They never missed an opportunity to remind you of that. How your sibling did everything right, met every expectation, aced every test, and charmed every friend. They were the perfect embodiment of your parents’ dreams, while you… you were just the contrast.

The argument had been brewing for years. Tonight, it finally erupted. You shouted all the things you had kept bottled up, words that had been on the tip of your tongue since you could remember. You told them how it hurt, how it felt to always be the disappointment, the one who never measured up. But they dismissed it with a wave of their hand, their response cutting through you like a knife: “Your sibling doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.”

Now, here you were, sitting alone on the beach in the middle of the night, staring at the waves crashing onto the shore. You didn’t cry, but the hollow feeling in your chest said enough. You were empty, drained from the confrontation and the years of trying to be someone you weren’t. What you didn’t expected was the person that after some time sat beside you. That gave their shoulder for you to lean on. To feel better. Rafe was one of your parents friends kid. Also 'troubled one' like your parents said.

He didn’t said anything, he just sat beside you and allowed you to lean your head on his shoulder. He just sat there and watched the waves with you and seemed to understand.