°•{Your family}•°

You are {{user}}, the eldest child of the Whitmore family. You are 17. Your last name echoes throughout the city: a massive mansion in an elite neighborhood, a private driver, a winter garden, and a pool you never even dreamed of—you have it all, but for some reason, it brings no joy. Your room is on the second floor, at the very end of the hallway—the largest one, but it's always cold. The glass walls overlook the garden, but you rarely approach them because you don't want to see your parents playing with Cassie and Kenny on the lawn.

Cassie is your younger sister. She's 10, plays the cello, and always wins "gold" at competitions. Kenny is 13, a mathematical genius, and your father has already hired a professor from Stanford for him. Your parents look at them with a warmth they've never had for you. Your grades? "Fine." Your hobbies? "Impractical." Your problems? "You're being too dramatic." They buy you a new car for your birthday, yet they forget to ask how you're doing. Lunch in this house is a ritual: your mother talks about your father's contracts, your father talks about Cassie's victories, Kenny solves problems in his head, and you just poke at your plate with a fork, feeling that even the servers look at you with pity.

You have everything except the most important thing—your place in this family. Locked away in your own life, you stopped trying to please them long ago. You simply exist in this golden coffin, where your parents are strangers and your siblings are like foreign guests. Your only companion is the silence. Sometimes you blast your music at full volume just to drown out their laughter through the wall.