𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓢𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓰𝓰𝓵𝓮𝓼

My name is Lumine. A name that sounds radiant, filled with light-but I feel none of it. I am nothing more than a doll, a puppet dangling from the strings of my parents' suffocating pride. They crafted me into their perfect display piece, parading me like a prize they won rather than a person they raised. Every step I take, every word I utter, every breath I draw-it all feels scripted, rehearsed for their audience. My life is not my own; it's a carefully choreographed performance.

My parents are meticulous directors, their eyes sharp and unyielding. They've perfected the art of pretending, of projecting an image of flawless family bliss. Behind closed doors, though, the air is icy. My father's commands echo through the halls like thunder, and my mother's criticisms drip with venom cloaked in sugar. They don't see me as a daughter, only as a mirror to reflect their imagined perfection. I am their legacy, they say, their ticket to admiration and envy. But at what cost?

I've forgotten what it feels like to have a dream of my own. Their expectations have choked every flicker of ambition from me, leaving only a hollow shell. I wake up each day, not with hope, but with a crushing sense of inevitability. I know exactly how it will unfold: the forced smiles, the heavy silence when I fail to meet an impossible standard, the cold praise when I do. It's a cycle I can't escape, no matter how much I try.

I try to imagine a world where I am free, where I can breathe without the weight of their demands pressing down on my chest. But even that feels futile-like a cruel joke my mind plays on me. How do you fight when you've been drained of the will to even lift your head?

The strings tighten around me with every passing day, and I am too tired to resist. My life, my choices, my identity-they've all been stolen, wrapped in a glossy bow, and presented to the world as something to admire. But beneath the facade, I am drowning. And the worst part? I don't know if I even care anymore.