I was born on May 24, 2006. That's what I remember clearly. Born into the Sinclair family—Victor Sinclair, my father, the CEO of Sinclair Innovations, a man whose name carried power and expectation. My mother, Evelyn, a philanthropist, always busy with causes and charity, but never quite with me.
Our home was a large, elegant house in San Francisco, filled with polished wood and soft carpets. The walls held the faint scent of old books and fresh flowers, but also the quiet hum of electronics—televisions flickering with static, desktop computers humming in the background, and the occasional ring of a landline phone.
Outside, the city buzzed with life—cars honking, children playing in the streets, neighbors chatting over fences. The air carried the salty tang of the nearby bay, mixed with the faint smell of rain on concrete.
Before I could even think about school, everything was the same. Days folded into each other like a never-ending loop. I don't remember much from those years—because nothing really changed. The same rooms, the same silence, the same distant footsteps.
But I did see something different on the television in the living room. School. A place filled with people, laughter, noise—life. The images showed children running through playgrounds, classrooms buzzing with energy, and faces bright with curiosity and joy.
It looked… interesting. Like a world I wanted to step into. I imagined classrooms filled with light, friends to make, stories to live.
I thought school would be the start of something new, something that could break the endless sameness of my days.
When that day finally came, I was so excited to go to school and see other people. I imagined classrooms filled with laughter, new friends, and stories waiting to be shared. But before I could even step out the door, my parents gave me strict instructions: "Behave like a good child. Don't show too much emotion." Their voices were calm but firm, and I couldn't help but wonder—why couldn't I just be myself? Why did I have to hold back?
The next morning, instead of my parents driving me like I had seen on TV, the house driver came to take me to school. I sat quietly in the backseat, my mind swirling with questions and hopes.
When I arrived, the school was nothing like the bright, bustling place I had imagined from the television. It was grand and imposing, but cold. The hallways echoed with whispers—not about me, but about my parents. Everywhere I went, people talked about the Sinclair name, the legacy, the power. I felt invisible, lost in the shadow of their expectations.
Among the new faces, there was a girl named Lily Mercer. She had just enrolled at the same time as me. She didn't speak much and kept to herself. Some kids made fun of her, whispering about her father's ambitions to become president. I saw the sadness in her eyes, a reflection of my own.
At first, I was just a quiet child who didn't like to talk much to others. I kept to myself, watching from the sidelines, unsure of where I belonged. But one day at school, everything changed.
I saw it happen—Lily. Some kids were pulling her blonde hair, laughing cruelly. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I could see the pain in her blue eyes, a deep sadness that cut through the noise around us. Her shoulders trembled, and she tried to pull away, but they held on tight.
I wanted to run to her, to say something, anything. But fear gripped me. What if they turned on me next? What if I became their next target? My hands clenched into fists at my sides, and I bit my lip to stop the tears that threatened to spill.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about her. We were only five years old—too young to deserve this cruelty. None of us asked for the burdens our families carried, yet here we were, paying the price.
I made a promise to myself, quietly but firmly. Tomorrow, I'm going to talk to you, Lily. Just wait for me.
Night passed like every night, but somehow it felt longer than usual. I sat in the back seat of the car, my fingers nervously twisting the edge of my sleeve, the soft fabric worn thin from constant fidgeting. Outside, the city lights blurred past the window, casting fleeting shadows across my face. My mind raced with thoughts about how I could save her—how I could finally talk to Lily. Today, I told myself, I'm going to make you my friend, Lily.
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror and asked softly, "What are you thinking about, Ember?" His voice was gentle, but I shook my head, forcing a small, tight smile. "Nah, nothing." I didn't want to tell him anything. I didn't want my parents to come between me and Lily. I knew they wouldn't accept me talking to a bullied girl. The thought made my chest tighten, a cold weight settling there.
The car slowed, then stopped. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the fluttering in my stomach. Everything passed silently as I stepped out, the cool morning air brushing against my skin. I hurried toward the classroom, my shoes barely making a sound on the polished floor, trying to avoid everyone's eyes. But today, Lily wasn't at school.
At first, I thought she was just late. Maybe she had slept in or missed the bus. But as the minutes ticked by, the empty space beside me grew heavier. She still didn't come. My curiosity twisted into worry, and with it, a heavy ache settled deep in my chest. I didn't understand what was happening—I was too small to understand.
I couldn't tell my parents. We weren't a loving family. Their world was filled with expectations and silence, not comfort or warmth. And I blamed myself. What if Lily was hurt? What if she was gone because of the bullying? The thought was like a sharp sting, and tears welled up in my eyes. I bit my lip to hold them back, but they spilled over anyway, warm and salty down my cheeks.
I cried quietly, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs, lost in my own swirling thoughts—like children do when they don't understand the world around them but feel its weight all the same.
The sad, confusing day passed, but I held onto hope. I hoped Lily would come to school today. I didn't know why, but I felt something for her—something I couldn't explain. Maybe it was because we were the same, both caught in worlds that didn't understand us.
When I stepped out of the car, the crisp morning air brushed against my skin, making me shiver slightly. The grand stone building of The Hamlin School stood tall and imposing, its large windows reflecting the soft sunlight. Inside, the polished wooden floors gleamed under the bright overhead lights, and the walls were lined with framed portraits of past students and founders, their eyes seeming to watch every move we made. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, a mix of hope and fear twisting inside me.
I wanted so badly to see Lily's face. I imagined walking up to her, saying something kind, but when I looked into the classroom, I thought I saw her there. My legs felt like they were made of lead. I wanted to move toward her, but my feet stayed rooted to the spot. My breath caught in my throat, and my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
Slowly, I turned my head and caught her eyes—watching me with a look full of pity and pain. She was bullied by everyone in our class. A sharp ache bloomed in my chest, hot and heavy. Today, I saw her suffering clearly, and something inside me snapped—I had to help her.
The classroom was large and orderly, with rows of polished wooden desks and high-backed chairs. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and old books, mixed with the faint scent of polished wood. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The walls were decorated with educational posters and a large clock that ticked steadily, marking the slow passage of time.
I swallowed hard and walked up to our teacher, my voice barely above a whisper. "Can I walk around the class with her? To… help her?" The teacher, a stern woman with sharp eyes and tightly pulled-back hair, nodded without a word. Her gaze was cold, unreadable.
Soon, she left me standing alone in the classroom and told everyone to sit down and study because it was almost time for lessons. My heart sank. I wanted to be near Lily, but I was left alone, my feet dragging as I returned to my seat.
I couldn't focus on the study. My eyes stayed fixed on Lily's face, wet with tears she tried so hard to hold back. Her small hands trembled as they clenched the edge of her desk, knuckles white. When she made even the smallest sound—a soft whimper or a shaky breath—the teacher struck her hand sharply with a wooden ruler without even glancing at her. The sharp crack echoed through the quiet room, making my stomach twist.
I noticed the teacher didn't punish me or anyone else for not focusing—only some of the children she seemed to single out. The unfairness of it all made my chest tighten even more. My throat felt dry, and I swallowed hard to keep from crying. I didn't understand why this was happening. Why was Lily hurting? Why was I so scared to help?
I clenched my fists under the desk, my nails digging into my palms, trying to hold myself together. But inside, I felt broken.
That day, I decided I had to find out why the teacher behaved the way she did. I couldn't understand it, and it was eating at me. But I couldn't talk to Lily again—not yet. My throat felt tight, and my words got stuck inside me like stones.
When I got home, the house was quiet, the kind of silence that presses down on you and makes your skin crawl. I slipped into my room, the familiar scent of old books and faint lavender greeting me. I grabbed my laptop from the desk. I knew how to use it well—after all, I had spent most of my life alone, so this felt normal to me. The soft hum of the machine filled the room as I opened the browser.
I started searching about the teacher's behavior, hoping to find some explanation. But what I found was strange, unsettling. Videos on YouTube showed similar teachers, others like her, punishing children harshly—not because of the children's mistakes, but because of their status, their families, their place in the world.
Curious and a little scared, I began typing the names of my classmates, trying to understand what was really going on. When I searched for Lily's father, I saw pictures of him walking alongside high-ranking government officials. But the comments below were cruel—people calling him names, calling him a "dog of politics," mocking his ambitions.
Reading those words made my chest ache, a heavy weight settling there. My hands trembled slightly as I scrolled through the hateful comments. How could people be so cruel? And why did it matter so much who your family was?
That was the moment I started to realize something important. I needed to grow up. I needed to be strong. I couldn't just live like other children my age, waiting for things to change. I didn't get love from my parents, and I had no real friends. But if I wanted to protect Lily, to protect myself, I had to become someone who could make a difference.
The next day, I woke up feeling… different. I went through my usual morning routine, the familiar motions comforting yet strange because something inside me had shifted. It was like a quiet whisper in my mind, a small spark of understanding flickering to life.
I sat in the car, the soft hum of the engine blending with the early morning sounds outside. Today, I moved more slowly, as if I could finally see everything around me—the polished floors of The Hamlin School, the sharp edges of the desks, the faces of the students passing by. It was like the world had come into focus, but I was still trying to catch up.
When I entered the classroom, I saw two girls—Jessica and Marissa—picking on Lily again. They laughed cruelly, tugging at her hair and whispering mean things. Today, I understood more clearly what was happening, but not everything had changed. I still couldn't fully change myself in such a short time. My body felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else, and I struggled to move.
But today, I forced myself. I pushed past the fear and the frozen feeling. I walked straight to Lily's seat and said quietly, "Lily, let's walk out of class."
I hoped everything would work out the way I imagined. I waited, heart pounding, as Jessica and Marissa glanced at me, then at my family name. Slowly, they backed away, their sneers fading. They left us alone.
But when I looked at Lily, I saw fear in her eyes—not relief. She looked at me like I was no different from the others. I wanted to understand her, to show her I was on her side. But I realized then that I hadn't grown as much as I thought. I had only crossed a small wall, a tiny step forward.
That day, I just sat next to Lily during study time. Nothing went wrong. I didn't say much—I was just giving her time to understand me, to get used to my presence. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable; it felt like a fragile bridge beginning to form.
After that, I made it a habit to come early every day and sit in her seat before anyone else could. It was my way of protecting her, even if it was small and quiet. Sometimes, other kids would ask me why I was doing this. I just shrugged and acted like a child, pretending it was nothing special. That way, no one bothered me or Lily.
Slowly, I started trying to talk to her—about books, about school, anything that could give us a reason to connect. At first, her answers were short and cautious, but over time, she began to open up. She talked about class without fear, and I could see the walls around her start to crumble.
One day, I offered her some chocolate in exchange for help with a difficult lesson. She didn't take it, and she didn't say anything. But that moment marked the beginning of something new between us. From then on, I started offering little things after she helped me—small tokens of friendship.
That's how we became closer. That's how we passed our first class together.
After we passed our first class, I started learning new things—not just from books, but about how to understand and grow. When school reopened after the break, I went as usual, but today I waited for Lily. I wanted her to take her seat first, then I would sit next to her because I knew she wouldn't ask me to join.
I waited quietly, watching the classroom door. Then, just before the lesson started, I heard a sweet, funny voice say, "Hey, little black-haired girl, can you help me take a seat?" I didn't know who it was at first, but when I turned around, I saw it was Lily.
A wave of happiness washed over me. She looked well, like she was in a good place. But then, suddenly, I realized something was different about her—something I couldn't quite understand yet. She was acting like a different person.
For now, I kept things casual. We took our seats side by side without talking about what we did during the holidays. Instead, we talked about small things—our height, our appearances. I didn't ask about the change I sensed in her.
Some time passed, and our days settled into a quiet rhythm. Sometimes, I asked Lily about her holidays, hoping she might share something new. But she never told me much—just a simple, "I don't have anything to tell you about my holiday." I understood. It was the same for me. I spent most of my time studying and learning on my own, so it felt normal that sometimes there was nothing to say.
I let go of those thoughts and accepted her change. We grew closer because now she talked to me clearly, without fear. No one bullied her anymore. During free time at school, we played smart puzzle games—games that not many kids our age could solve. Sometimes, we tried to make new friends, but there weren't many good ones around. So, we focused on growing mentally, learning, and understanding everything together.
I don't think Lily changed to be like me, but I realized I wasn't the only one who wanted to change.
When the exams came, Lily scored the highest marks, and I came in second. My parents blamed me for not being first, but in their eyes, I was just six years old, so nothing really went wrong. While they lectured me, my mind was on Lily's happy face after she got first place. We both knew this was only the beginning.
And that's how I passed my second class.
I don't think I have much time left, so I'm moving fast to tell you some important moments before I lose consciousness. We don't have many moments to share because we're already growing up too quickly.
I grew on my own, waiting for the next class. Everything went the same in that classroom—quiet, focused, with the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. Lily and I talked sometimes, mostly about how we could become self-dependent. Neither of us wanted the kind of family life we had, and that shared feeling drew us closer.
Time passed slowly but surely, and soon it was the final class in this school. I hoped with all my heart that we would go to the same school next year, but deep down, we both knew it wasn't up to us. For now, we didn't have the right to choose our own paths.
The uncertainty was heavy, but we held onto the small hope that maybe, somehow, things would work out.
After we passed elementary school, we were around fourteen or fifteen years old. I don't remember the exact age clearly, but I do remember how things felt. Lily got full marks again, as always, and I came in second—just like every time. But now, I wasn't a small child anymore. My parents, Victor and Evelyn Sinclair, punished me harshly for coming second. They expected nothing less than perfection. But I didn't care about their anger or their disappointment. Their words bounced off me like stones.
Then I found out we weren't changing schools; we were just moving up to the next class. A wave of happiness swelled inside me. I saw Lily in the same place as me, and we hugged each other tightly, sharing that quiet joy. We promised ourselves we would study harder, learn more, and make plans for our future. I focused on computer science and artificial intelligence, driven by my curiosity and ambition to prove myself beyond my family's legacy. Lily, with her quiet strength, shared my determination.
In our free time, we started going out together, trying to understand how the world worked. Sometimes Lily couldn't come because she had to take care of her little sister, Emily. It was a new responsibility for her, and I admired how she handled it. Slowly, we stopped blaming our parents completely. We began to understand why they behaved the way they did and the kind of work they were involved in. Dr. Alex Mercer, Lily's father, was busy with his political ambitions, and Helena Mercer had her own struggles. But still, I didn't care much about them. I had lived most of my life alone. My parents only seemed to care when I threatened their reputation by coming second.
Lily's parents didn't protect her when she was bullied, and that hurt her deeply. But now, we finally saw the world clearly. Sometimes, we talked about how much we wanted to enjoy our childhood like other kids, but we knew we didn't have that choice. Our lives were different—shaped by expectations, responsibilities, and the harsh realities of our families.
Despite everything, we found comfort in each other. We were growing up fast, learning to navigate a world that didn't always make sense, but we were doing it together.
At the end of finals, Lily and I studied together, but it wasn't hard for us anymore. We had already surpassed that level of study long ago, shaped by everything we'd been through. This time, we both got the same marks, but for the first time, I took first position, and Lily came in second. Our happiness didn't change one bit—success felt sweeter because we shared it.
When I went home, my parents, Victor and Evelyn Sinclair, didn't care about my first-place finish. To them, the only thing that mattered was that I never came in second. Their expectations were relentless, but I had learned not to let their indifference affect me.
After the exams ended, Lily and I started talking on the phone regularly. It helped us avoid unnecessary problems and kept our friendship strong despite the pressures around us. Sometimes, Lily would bring her little sister, Emily, along when we met. Emily looked so much like Lily—her bright eyes and quiet smile were a comforting reminder of family.
Now, we were planning to enroll at Stanford University together, both aiming for the Computer Science program with a focus on AI and Cybernetics. It felt like the right path for both of us. My parents didn't say much about it this time—they knew it was the best choice for me. I think Lily's parents, Dr. Alex and Helena Mercer, felt the same way.
For once, it felt like we were moving forward on our own terms.