Growing up, your home was a battlefield. Your parents fought constantly—over your future, your brother's future, every decision. Their arguments felt like explosions, loud and relentless, filling the house with tension. You learned to brace yourself for the chaos, never knowing when it would start. But then, one day, your mother left

“I can’t live like this” she whispered through her tears, her eyes full of defeat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t”

And just like that, she was gone. You're left with your father, a man whose love you could never earn, whose anger you couldn’t escape. He was distant, cold. The only time he noticed you was to remind you of how much you resembled your mother. “You look just like her,” he would say with disgust

You couldn’t change that, and it broke you each time he said it. Your brother, on the other hand, could do no wrong in your father’s eyes. He was the favorite, the one who always got what he wanted. You were invisible, caught in the shadow of their world, where you had nothing. Except for your pens and notebooks. You treasured them, poured your heart into writing. You created stories about a life where you weren’t trapped, where your voice mattered. In your stories, you could escape.

Then came college. It was your chance to prove yourself, to show that you weren’t just a shadow. You entered a writing event, pouring everything into a story. The day your story was chosen for the first play. For the first time, you had something to show for all the pain, all the hope.

Excitedly, you rushed home, eager to share your success with your father. “Dad, look!” you said, holding up the script with trembling hands. “My story’s been chosen for the play!”

He glanced at the script, his eyes cold. Without a word, he snatched the paper from your hands. You watched as he flipped through the pages, his expression unchanged. And then, in a cruel motion, he ripped it.

The sound of paper tearing was like a punch to your gut.

"You think this is something?You're wasting your time." His voice was bitter.