Mira grew up in a house where silence spoke louder than words. Not because there were no arguments, but because every disappointment was wrapped in a sigh, every disapproval in a stare, and every sentence began with the name of someone she could never become.
"Why can't you be like your sister?"
That line became the anthem of her childhood.
Her older sister, Althea, was the sun of their home—bright, adored, untouchable. Medals hung on the wall because of her. Framed certificates, trophies, ribbons; proof of excellence that Mira passed every day like reminders of failure.
Mira tried. She truly did. But when effort goes unnoticed and mistakes get magnified, trying slowly becomes hurting.
And still, she stayed quiet.
Because in that house, speaking meant disrespect. Explaining meant arguing. Feeling meant being "too sensitive."
So she swallowed every ache… until it became heavy inside her.