I'm a middle child , I am not someone's option let alone someone's choice .
I was only 18 and that happened to me .
Will I be able to be someone's first choice ? . I'm okay with being an option too . At least an option to someone.
Let's see who'...
The book looked old. Vintage. The cover had a silly little drawing, like a child had scribbled on it. The handwriting was all over the place—messy, hard to read. The pages felt rough under the fingers, yellowed at the edges, like they had been held too many times.
There was no proper lock. Instead, a twisted root wrapped around the top, keeping it shut, like it didn’t want to be opened..
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When Yibo flipped it open, the first thing he saw was a drawing.
No— a drawing.
Ink spread unevenly across the paper, forming a family picture. A father, a mother, and their three children. But something was off. The two younger ones stood close to their parents, like they belonged there. The third child stood a little far away. Not far enough to disappear. Just far enough to be left out.
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First page ***********
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because no one ever listens.
In our family, there were always two sides. My parents stood in the middle, and my brothers stood on either side of them. Cheng Ge, the eldest, was the golden son—the responsible one, the pride of the family. Fengxing, the youngest, was the baby—the one who could do no wrong, the one who was held even when he didn’t need to be.
And then, there was me.
I was not close enough to be in their warmth, but not far enough to be completely invisible. I stood somewhere in between, where neither side reached for me.
Dad never called my name unless it was to scold me. When I spoke, he barely looked up. When I did something good, he barely noticed. But when I made a mistake, his voice became sharp, cutting through me like broken glass.
Dad used to hold me when I was small. I think. I don’t remember when it stopped. Maybe when Cheng Ge needed more attention, or when Fengxing was born. She didn’t stop loving me, she just… forgot to show it.
Cheng Ge was busy being perfect. Fengxing was busy being loved.
And I was busy trying to exist.
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One night, I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching my mother cut apples for Fengxing. She peeled them carefully, making sure not to break the skin, so she could hand him the long, unbroken spiral of red. He laughed, clapping his little hands.
I was hungry too. But I didn’t ask.
I just watched as she handed him a plate and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
