Choose the Choice

2

Sim had always been the quiet one in her family. She was born second among four siblings, a position that seemed to place her forever in between—too young to be taken seriously, too old to be cherished like the youngest. From the outside, the house she lived in appeared ordinary: a small bungalow with a garden that rarely bloomed, a gate that creaked when opened, and curtains drawn tight. Inside, however, the air was thick with words meant to wound, silences heavy with neglect, and laughter that often turned cruel.

Sim’s older sister, Mari, was beautiful, bold, and cruel in ways that only siblings could be. Mari’s words were sharper than knives, her criticisms constant and relentless. If Sim wore a dress, Mari sneered that it looked borrowed. If Sim tried to help in the kitchen, Mari pushed her aside, claiming she would ruin the meal. At school, Mari ignored her existence, but at home she turned into the loudest bully, using every chance to remind Sim that she was “nothing special.”

Her younger sister, Lila, followed Mari’s lead. At first, Sim thought Lila might be her ally, the one sibling who would understand what it was like to live under Mari’s shadow. But children mirror what they see, and soon Lila too mocked Sim—copying Mari’s words, laughing at Sim’s quiet voice, even rolling her eyes whenever Sim tried to speak up.

Her brother, Tomas, the eldest, was different—not cruel, but distant. He spent most of his time outside the house with friends, or locked away in his room with his headphones on. To Sim, it felt like neglect: when she needed him most, he wasn’t there. He didn’t defend her from Mari’s insults or notice the bruises left on her heart. He simply turned away, lost in his own world, pretending not to hear the fights echoing through the walls.

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The Weight of Silence

Sim learned early to carry her pain quietly. She spoke less and less, fearing her words would only be twisted or ridiculed. She stayed in her room, sketching in notebooks that no one else cared to look at. Art became her only language, her drawings a secret diary of emotions.

But silence was heavy. At night, when the house grew quiet, Sim would lie awake, listening to her sisters laughing together in the next room, or her brother’s music thudding faintly through the wall. A lump would rise in her throat, and tears would prick her eyes. She longed to belong, to feel wanted, to know that somewhere in that house of shadows, she mattered.

Her parents were there but absent in their own way. Her mother worked long hours, returning home too exhausted to notice the subtle cruelties unfolding. Her father was stern and quiet, a man who believed children should “toughen up” and never complain. So when Sim once tried to tell him how Mari treated her, he dismissed her with a glance. “You need to stop being so sensitive,” he said, turning back to his newspaper. That was the last time she tried to reach out.

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Cruelty Beyond Home

If home was unbearable, Sim once hoped that school would be her escape. But even there, she couldn’t find peace.

Because she was quiet and reserved, classmates began labeling her “weird” and “awkward.” A group of girls in her class whispered whenever she walked by, giggling at her thrift-store clothes and messy ponytail. Sometimes they “accidentally” bumped into her in the hallway, sending her books crashing to the floor. Other times, they mocked her voice when she tried to answer questions in class.

Mari, who shared the same school, did nothing to help. If anything, her sister’s reputation for being loud and popular only made Sim’s quietness stand out more. Teachers praised Sim for her excellent grades and her art projects, but this only fueled the bullies’ cruelty. “Teacher’s pet,” they sneered. “Robot girl.”

There were days when Sim ate lunch in the bathroom just to avoid the cafeteria laughter. Days when she hid her sketchbook under her arm, afraid that her classmates would grab it and tear it apart. Her silence deepened—not only at home, but everywhere. She began to wonder if her existence was cursed, if she was destined to be everyone’s target.

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The Breaking Point

One evening, while helping set the table for dinner, Sim accidentally dropped a glass. It shattered across the tiled floor, and before she could bend down to clean it, Mari snapped:

“Useless! You can’t do anything right. Why don’t you just stay out of the way?”

Her father scolded her too, telling her to “be careful for once.” Lila laughed, calling her “clumsy Sim.”

It wasn’t just the glass that broke—it was something inside her. Sim ran to her room, shut the door, and pressed her back against it as though holding the world away. She sobbed into her pillow, shaking with the weight of her loneliness. For the first time, she wondered if disappearing would make everyone happier. If her absence would be less of a burden than her presence.

The cruelty at school, the bullying at home—it all pressed on her chest until she could hardly breathe.

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A Flicker of Light

But the universe has strange ways of planting seeds of hope. A few days later, in her school library, Sim met a girl named Aira. Unlike her sisters, unlike her classmates, Aira listened when Sim spoke. She admired Sim’s drawings when she saw her sketching during lunch break. “You’re really talented,” Aira said with genuine warmth.

It was such a small sentence, but for Sim, it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. No one in her family had ever told her she was talented. No one at school had looked at her with kindness. But Aira did.

They began sitting together, sharing stories, homework, and secrets. For the first time, Sim had a friend who valued her voice, who didn’t mock or ignore her. Aira encouraged her to join the school’s art club, and though Sim hesitated, fearing she wasn’t good enough, she eventually agreed.

The art club became her sanctuary. She poured her heart into every painting, every sketch. Teachers began noticing her talent, praising her work in ways that made her glow with pride. At home and at school, she still endured taunts, but she carried within her a quiet flame—a reminder that she wasn’t entirely invisible.

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The Confrontation

One night, the storm returned stronger than ever. Mari found one of Sim’s sketchbooks left on the couch and began flipping through it. “Look at this,” she sneered, showing Lila. “She thinks she’s some kind of artist.” They laughed, tossing the book between them like a toy. Pages bent, drawings tore.

Sim’s chest tightened. For years, she had stayed silent, absorbing the cruelty, hiding her pain. But when she saw them ripping apart the only thing that gave her strength, something inside her snapped.

“Stop!” Sim shouted, louder than she had ever dared before. The room fell silent. Her sisters stared, shocked by her sudden defiance. Her father looked up from his chair, frowning.

Sim’s voice trembled, but she didn’t stop. “You don’t get to destroy the one thing that makes me happy. You’ve called me useless, worthless—but I am not. I am more than your insults. You don’t get to decide who I am.”

For the first time, Mari didn’t have a comeback. Lila shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to laugh or retreat. Her father muttered something about “not shouting in the house,” but even he couldn’t ignore the fire in Sim’s eyes.

That night, Sim cried again—but not from weakness. From release. From finally choosing herself.

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Finding Her Voice

After that confrontation, nothing changed overnight. Her sisters still mocked her, classmates still whispered behind her back, her brother still withdrew, her parents remained blind. But Sim had changed. She no longer absorbed their words as truth. She knew now that cruelty—at home and at school—came from others’ emptiness, not her lack of worth.

She poured more of herself into art. She entered a regional competition with Aira’s encouragement and won second place. Holding that certificate, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She wasn’t “nothing.” She was Sim—the girl who could create beauty even in the midst of chaos.