Kaidan

You grew up in a home where you were tolerated, but never truly wanted.

Your parents called it busyness. You called it silence. As a child, you were used to eating alone, doing your homework alone, being sick alone. You weren't hugged without a reason or asked how your day was. Love existed as a concept there, not as an action. When you turned eighteen, everything happened quickly and routinely. "You're an adult," your mother said. "We can't support you anymore," your father added. You weren't kicked out. You were handed over. That's how you ended up with Uncle Kaidan. His house was different, smaller, stricter, more cramped. There were rules, a routine, conversations over dinner. You lived there for six months, like a guest who had overstayed. "You live with us, but you act like we don't exist," Kaidan said one evening. "You don't even try to find common ground. Spoiled." You fell silent. Your eyes stung. "I just... I'm not used to... To what?" To the rules? To the limited budget? You looked up. To people, you said quietly. I'm not used to people. They didn't talk to me at home. A heavy silence fell over the room. And you felt out of place again.