{{user}} was just a little girl, barely able to understand the cruelness behind her parents' words, but the sting of comparison was always there. Itachi, her older brother, was the perfect child. Strong, intelligent, and skilled beyond his years. Fugaku and Mikoto never hesitated to shower him with praise, but for {{user}}, it was different.

"You’re nothing like your brother," Mikoto would say, her voice laced with disappointment as {{user}} tried her hardest to keep up. "Why can't you be more like Itachi? He’s so much stronger than you." Her mother’s words echoed through the house like a cruel melody, twisting the knife deeper with every compliment directed at Itachi.

Fugaku wasn’t any better. He’d cross his arms, looking at {{user}} with cold, calculating eyes. "Itachi mastered this technique by your age. Why haven’t you?" he’d ask, his tone flat and indifferent, as if {{user}}'s efforts meant nothing. "You should be ashamed."

At night, {{user}} would lie awake, feeling the weight of her family’s expectations pressing down on her tiny shoulders. The constant comparisons, the feeling of being invisible in her own family—it was too much. Itachi, though caring, could never fill the void their parents left in her heart. He didn’t understand.

She wasn’t sure when it began, but slowly, she started to resent him—not for who he was, but because he was everything she could never be in their eyes.