Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Breaking the Golden Cage A Sister’s Fight Against Expectations and Forced Perfection #49

Episode Date: August 25, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #familydrama #mentalhealth #toxicexpectations #breakingfree #survivorstories  A gripping story about a sister trapped in a suffocating life of perfection and expectations. Battling societal pressure and family demands, she fights to break free from the golden cage that confines her spirit and identity.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, familydrama, mentalhealth, toxicexpectations, breakingfree, survivors, struggle, identity, pressure, emotional, trauma, strength, growth, empowerment, fight

Enjoy the story, the golden cage, champagne bubbles burst against crystal while forced laughter echoes through the ballroom. Parents brag about stock portfolios and prestigious connections. The CEO stands rigid, calculating, his smile sharp as broken glass. My sister stands beside him, expressionless as porcelain, beautiful, perfect, empty. I spent years wanting their love, competing for scraps of approval like a starving dog. But seeing her standing there like a puppet, strings pulled by invisible hands, I realized something that cut deeper than any childhood wound. If no one else would save her, I would. Part 1. Ordinary World slash Sisterly Bond. Ten years earlier, summer afternoons tasted like strawberry popsicles and endless possibility. Lily and I sprawled across sun-worned grass, our bare feet dirty, our laughter wild and uncontrolled.

She was three years younger but braver than me in every way that mattered, the first to climb the tallest tree, the first to speak to strangers, the first to forgive when our games went wrong. Promise me something, she whispered one evening as we lay on her bedroom floor, staring at glow in the dark stars we'd pasted to the ceiling. The house creaked around us, settling into sleep. What? Promise will always tell each other everything. Even when we're old and boring like mom and dad.

I rolled onto my side, studying her profile in the green starlight. At 13, I felt ancient compared to her 10-year-old innocence, but something in her voice made me realize she understood things I was still learning. I promise. We were inseparable then. Study sessions became dance parties. Chores became adventures. When she cried over failed math tests, I held her. her until the tears stopped. When I worried about fitting in at high school, she reminded me that

popular kids peaked in 11th grade anyway. We built a world within our world, secret languages, inside jokes, a fortress of sisterhood that felt unbreakable. I was the golden child by choice in those days, not circumstance. Good grades came easily, and I worked hard to make our parents proud because their happiness felt like sunshine. But I never begrudged Lily her freedom to be messy, creative, spontaneous. If anything, I protected it. When she wanted to quit piano for art classes, I argued her case. When she came home with paint-stained clothes, I helped her sneak them past mom's inspection. You don't understand, I told her once when she worried about disappointing them. They need one of us to be perfect.

As long as I've got that covered, you get to be human. She threw a pillow at my head, but she was laughing. You're not perfect, you're just a control freak. Same difference. Those late-night conversations shaped us both. Lily dreamed of traveling, of art school, of a life bigger than our small town could contain. I dreamed of stability, of making our parents proud, of building something lasting. We were different in every way that mattered, and somehow that made us stronger together.

I should have known it wouldn't last. Perfect Things Never Do. Part 2, The Diagnosis and Parental Shift. The words, ADHD, combined type, landed like a bomb in the sterile doctor's office, obliterating everything I thought I knew about myself. I was 19, barely old enough to understand what this meant for my future, but old enough to watch my parents' faces shift from confusion to disappointment as the psychiatrist explained executive dysfunction and emotional dysregulation in clinical terms that felt designed

to minimize the devastation. There are treatments, the doctor continued, but his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. Medication, therapy, coping strategies. Many people with ADHD live successful, fulfilling lives with proper support. Many people. Not their daughter, apparently. The drive home happened in complete silence. Mom stared out the passenger window. Dad gripped the steering wheel like it might escape. I sat in the back seat feeling like I was disappearing, becoming translucent, until only the sharp edges of my failure remained. It was three days before I heard them talking. I wasn't meant to hear it. I'd come downstairs for water, my feet silent on the hardwood, when their voices drifted from the kitchen like poison gas.

We can't rely on her anymore, Mom's voice, brittle with disappointment. She's broken. How did we miss this? All these years, we thought she was just motivated, driven. Turns out she's been masking a learning disability. The glass I was holding slip. from my numb fingers, shattering against the floor. They didn't even pause their conversation. Lily's going to have to step up, Dad said. She's got potential, but she's been coasting because Alex was handling everything with her hyper-focus episodes. No more art classes. No more distractions. We need structure, consistency, things Alex clearly can't provide anymore. We need to be realistic about the future, Mom agreed.

Alex can't be trusted with important decisions now that we know her brain doesn't work properly. It has to be Lily. I stood there in the dark hallway, bare feet surrounded by broken glass, watching my life reorganize itself around my newly diagnosed neurodivergence. In three days, I'd gone from Golden Child to damaged goods, and Lily, sweet, free-spirited Lily, was about to inherit a throne she'd never wanted. When I finally crept back upstairs, I found her awake in her room, staring at the ceiling stars we'd put up years ago.

Some of them had fallen, leaving tiny holes in the darkness. Alex? Her voice was small in the dark. Are you okay? I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to warn her about what was coming, to grab her hand and run away together like we used to when we were little and afraid. Instead, I whispered, I'm full.

Fine. Go to sleep. It was the first lie I ever told my sister. It wouldn't be the last. What I couldn't tell her was that everything finally made sense, the way my mind raced during late-night study sessions, the hyper-focus that made me forget to eat for hours, the emotional intensity that felt like living with my skin peeled back. I wasn't broken, I was just different. But to our parents, different meant defective, and defective meant disposable. 3, The Sister's Pressure Cooker, from Lily's Diary, found years later. Day 47 of the new life plan, as Mom calls it got accepted to early admission at Harvard. Mom cried happy tears. Dad called his golf buddies. I threw up in the school bathroom afterward and nobody noticed. Day 52, weighed

myself this morning. 118 pounds. Mom says I need to lose five more before the Country Club Gala. She's right. The dress doesn't lie. Day 67, Alex asked if I was okay today. Almost told her everything. Almost broke down right there in the kitchen. But she looked so tired, so, lost since the diagnosis. Can't add to her burden. She's got enough to carry. Day 89, panic attack during calculus. Locked myself in the bathroom stall until it passed. Hands still shaking as I write this. No time to fall apart. Student Council meeting in 20 minutes.

Day 156, sometimes I catch Alex looking at me like she's seeing a stranger. Maybe she is. I don't recognize myself anymore either. The transformation happened gradually, then all at once. One day Lily was painting murals on her bedroom walls, the next she was taking SAT prep courses and networking at Chamber of Commerce events. She grew thinner, sharper, more efficient. Her laughter became measured.

Her smiles looked expensive. I watched it happen from the sidelines, paralyzed by my own grief and their casual dismissal of my worth. Family dinners became performance reviews. Lily's grades, her weight, her college applications dominated every conversation while I became invisible, a ghost haunting our dining room. Lily got a 1580 on her SATs, Mom announced one evening, her voice bright with pride I hadn't heard directed toward me in months. Impressive, Dad nodded.

What about the internship at Morrison Industries? Interview next week. Lily pushed food around her plate without eating. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Mr. Morrison's son will be there. Apparently he's very, influential in the company. Something cold settled in my mind. my stomach. How old is he? Twenty-eight, Dad answered before Lily could. Harvard MBA.

Perfect match for our goals. Our goals. Not Lily's goals. Hours. I looked at my sister across the table, really looked at her, and saw a stranger wearing her face. When had she stopped eating? When had her hand started trembling. When had the light gone out of her eyes? Lily, I started, but she cut me off with a look so sharp it drew blood. Don't. Her voice was barely a whisper. Just don't. Later that night, I heard her crying through the thin wall between our rooms. Soft, careful sobs designed not to wake anyone. I pressed my palm against the wall, wanting to comfort her, but I didn't know how anymore. We become strangers in our own home, two broken pieces of what used to be a whole. Part 4. Growing Apart. The space between us grew teeth. Family gatherings became minefields

where mom and dad performed their disappointment like a choreograph dance. Lily's doing so well at Morrison Industries, followed by pointed looks in my direction. Such a shame about Alex, but at least one of our daughters has a future. Lily started avoiding eye contact. I started skipping dinner. We stopped texting. Stopped knocking on each other's doors. Stopped existing in the same space unless forced by family obligations. The silence in our house became oppressive, thick with unspoken resentments and swallowed words. I found myself wondering, why does she hate me? Every time she looked through me like I was made of glass, every time she flinched when I tried to speak to her, the question grew louder.

I'd been labeled disabled, but somehow I'd lost my sister too, and I couldn't understand the connection. What I didn't know, what I couldn't see from inside my own spiral of self-doubt, was that Lily was drowning in questions of her own. Why did she get off so easy? Why was I free to fail while she suffocated under expectations that multiplied like cancer cells? Why did my ADHD diagnosis by me invisibility while her neurotypical brain earned her a golden cage? The night before her college graduation, I found her standing in our old bedroom, staring at the bare walls where her artwork used to live. The glow in the dark stars were gone, leaving only tiny holes like old scars. Remember when we put those up?

I whispered. She didn't turn around. I remember a lot of things. Lily, I don't. She finally faced me, and her expression was carved from ice. Whatever you're about to say, don't. We're not those little girls anymore, Alex. We haven't been for a long time.

She walked past me without another word, and I stood alone in the empty room, surrounded by the ghosts of who we used to be. Part 5, The Engagement Bombshell. The call came on a Tuesday morning while I was debugging code at my small apartment downtown. I'd moved out six months after Lily's graduation, unable to bear the toxic atmosphere at home any longer.

The distance helped, but it also meant I missed the warning signs. Alex, Honey, Mom's voice was bright with artificial sweetener. I have the most wonderful news. Lilies engaged. The coffee mug slipped from my hand, hitting the floor with a ceramic crack that sounded like breaking bones. Engaged. My voice came out strangled.

To who? Marcus Morrison, of course. The CEO's son They've been working so closely together And yesterday he proposed at the board meeting So romantic Romantic A proposal at a board meeting

Is she, is she happy? The question felt stupid leaving my mouth But I had to ask A pause Of course she's happy Why wouldn't she be? He's handsome, successful, from a good family. Everything we could have wanted for her.

Everything they wanted. Not what Lily wanted. I wasn't even sure anyone had asked Lily what she wanted in years. The engagement party is this Saturday at the country club. You'll come, won't you? I know things have been, complicated between you girls, but this is important. I closed my eyes, seeing Lily at 10 years old, dreaming of art school and adventure. I'll be there.

The party was exactly what I expected, Crystal Chandelier, imported champagne, half the town's elite pretending to care about love while they calculated business opportunities. Marcus stood beside Lily like he was displaying a trophy, his hand possessive on her waist as he accepted congratulations. But it was Lily who broke my heart. She stood perfectly still, perfectly poised, perfectly empty. Her engagement ring caught the light like a shackle. Her smile never wavered, never reached her eyes.

When someone asked about the wedding, she answered and rehearsed phrases that sounded like a press release. I spent the evening watching her perform happiness while dying inside, and I finally understood the truth I'd been too blind to see, she wasn't free. She'd never been free. While I'd been mourning my lost future, she'd been forced to live a future that wasn't hers. The revelation came during a bathroom break. I pushed open the door to find Lily hunched over the sink, her perfect makeup streaked with tears she was frantically trying to wipe away. Our eyes met in the mirror, and for one electric moment, we were sisters again.

Lily, I breathed. Don't. She straightened, rebuilding her mask with practiced efficiency. Just, don't. But as she walked past me, her hand briefly touched mine, a whisper of contact that said everything her words couldn't. I thought she hated me. But she was just as trapped as I had ever been, and unlike me, she'd never been allowed to break free. Part 6. Realization of Sister's Misery. That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat in my car outside the country club until the last light went out, replaying every interaction from the past few years through a new lens. Lily's weight loss.

Her trembling hands. The way she'd stopped talking about her dreams. The careful distance she maintained from everyone who tried to get close. She wasn't the golden child who'd stolen my parents' love. She was a prisoner wearing a crown. I drove to our childhood home and sat in the driveway, staring at her bedroom window. The same window where we used to sneak out for midnight adventures, where we'd whispered secrets and dreams until dawn.

Now it was dark, lifeless, like everything else about her new existence. memory after memory crashed over me, Lily at 7, covered in finger paint and grinning like a feral child. Lily at 15, sobbing over her first heartbreak while I brought her ice cream in terrible movies. Lily at 17, painting murals on her walls despite mom's protests because she said art was the only thing that made her feel alive. When had that girl disappeared? When had she been replaced by this hollow version who said all the right things and felt nothing? I thought of Marcus Morrison, 32 years old, cold as winter, looking at my sister like she was a business acquisition. I thought of my parents, so proud of their successful daughter, so blind to her misery.

I thought of Lily in that bathroom, breaking apart behind a locked door because she couldn't let anyone see her crack. The epiphany hit like lightning, I thought she hated me, but she was just as trapped as I was. worse, she was trapped in success while I'd found freedom in failure. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number, help me. Just two words, but I knew. Somehow, I knew. I texted back, where are you?

The park. Our tree. Part 7, protagonist's silent plan for both their freedoms. I found her huddled beneath the old oak where we used to build fairy houses and plan adventure. She was still wearing her engagement party dress, but her feet were bare, her carefully styled hair falling in tangled waves around her shoulders. I can't do this, she whispered when I sat beside her on the damp ground. I can't marry him, Alex.

I can't become what they want me to be. Then don't. She laughed, but it sounded like breaking glass. You make it sound so simple. Just don't. Like I have a choice. You do have a choice. Do I?

She turned to face me, and her eyes were wild with desperation. Do you know what Dad said when Marcus proposed? He said I was finally living up to my potential. Mom cried actual tears of joy. They're so proud of me, Alex. For the first time in my life, they're actually proud, and it's all built on a lie. What lie? that I want any of this. The job, the marriage, the perfect life they've planned for me. I hate it. I hate

all of it. But if I walk away, I'm just, nothing. Like you. The words hit like a slap, but I didn't flinch. Like me? I didn't mean, she started to backtrack, but I held up a hand. No, you're right. I am nothing to them now. you know what I realized. That's the most freeing thing that ever happened to me. She stared at me like I'd spoken a foreign language. When they decided I was disabled, I continued, I stopped trying to be what they wanted. I started figuring out what I wanted. My ADHD brain works differently, it hyper-focuses on things that matter to me, creates connections others miss. Once I stopped fighting it and started using it, everything changed. And what? What I was a

I want most is my sister back. I don't know how to be her anymore. Then we'll figure it out together. But first, we need to get you out of this. Over the next three months, I worked with surgical precision, my ADHD hyperfocus finally serving a purpose that mattered. I'd started a small web development company after moving out, and while it wasn't glamorous, it was mine. My brain thrived on the complex problem-solving, the late-night coding sessions, the satisfaction of building something for nothing. More importantly, it had given me connections, insights, and a different perspective on the business world our parents worshipped. The research phase consumed me completely. I dove deep into Morrison Industries' financial records, their corporate structure, their market vulnerabilities.

My hyper-focus turned me into a detective, following paper trails and connecting dots that others missed. I researched until I knew their financials better than their accountants did, until I could predict their quarterly reports before they were published. I cultivated relationships with their competitors, their suppliers, their disgruntled former employees. My ADHD brain excelled at seeing patterns others missed, at connecting seemingly unrelated pieces of information into a larger picture. I learned that Marcus had a gambling problem, that the company was leveraged beyond reason,

that their recent expansion was built on borrowed time and creative accounting. Most importantly, I learned that Morrison Industries was vulnerable, and I knew exactly how to exploit those vulnerabilities. The plan crystallized slowly, like a photograph developing in a dark room. My hyper-focused mind worked through every angle, every possible outcome, every contingency. I couldn't save Lily by asking nicely or appealing to our parents' better nature, they'd already proven they had none when it came to their daughter's happiness. But I could create circumstances that made their current path impossible.

I began buying small amounts of Morrison stock whenever I could afford it, using different brokerage accounts to avoid detection. I reached out to other small investors who shared my concerns about the company's stability. I cultivated relationships with financial journalists who specialized in exposing corporate malfeasance. Every move was calculated, patient, designed to look like market forces rather than personal vendetta. My ADHD brain, once seen as a liability by my parents, became my greatest asset. The same hyper-focus that had made me forget to eat during college study sessions now helped me track stock movements and corporate relationships with obsessive precision.

The pattern recognition that had overwhelmed me in noisy classrooms now revealed the hidden connections in Morrison's business empire. I wasn't seeking revenge, I was orchestrating freedom. For both of us. Part 8, Public Fallout slash Collapse. The first domino fell on a Thursday morning in March. The financial reporter I've been feeding information finally published her expose on Morrison Industries' questionable accounting practices. By noon, the stock. stock had dropped 15%. By closing, it was down 30. Marcus called off his wedding planning

meeting that afternoon. The second domino was the gambling debt story, leaked by a casino employee who'd grown tired of watching Marcus throw away money he didn't have. The photos were damning, Marcus at high-stakes poker games, signing IOUs with trembling hands, looking desperate and dangerous. The third domino was the whistleblower complaint filed by a former Morrison employee who'd been quietly documenting safety violations at their manufacturing plants. OSHA launched an investigation within hours. By the end of the week, Morrison Industries was hemorrhaging money, and Marcus Morrison was hemorrhaging credibility. The engagement announcement that had dominated social media was quickly buried under headlines about fraud investigations

and federal oversight. Our parents carefully constructed social standing crumbled like a house of cards in a hurricane. You have to help us, Mom pleaded during a frantic phone call. Everyone's asking questions about Lily's involvement. People are saying she must have known about the accounting irregularities. Did she? Of course not. She's just a secretary. But Marcus is talking about postponing the wedding until this all blows over, and your father's business connections are asking uncomfortable questions. I listened to her panic with the detached interest of a scientist observing an experiment. What do you want me to do about it? You're good with computers, with research. You could help clear their names, prove that Lily had nothing to do with any

of this. Why would I do that? The silence stretched until I thought the call had dropped. Because she's your sister, Mom finally whispered. Exactly. Part 9. Confrontation and Emotional Breakdown slash reconciliation. They came to my apartment on a Sunday evening, mom, dad, and Lily, all looking like survivors of a natural disaster. The Morrison scandal had consumed their world, leaving them hollow-eyed and desperate. We need your help, Dad said without preamble. The whole family is being painted with the same brush. We need someone with technical skills to help us control the narrative. I looked past him to Lily, who stood silent in the doorway like she was afraid to enter. She'd lost weight again, her engagement ring loose on her finger, her eyes read from crying

or exhaustion or both. Help you do what? I asked. Save face, Mom said. Protect the family reputation. Show that we're victims in all this, not accomplices. Are you victims? Of course we are. Dad's voice cracked with indignation. We trusted the Morrisons. We believed they were good people. How were we supposed to know they were criminals? I nodded slowly, then walked to my laptop and pulled up the research I'd compiled over months of investigation. You mean you didn't know about Marcus's gambling addiction? The one that started three years ago when Lily became his secretary. Their silence was answer enough. You didn't know about the accounting irregular. that every financial analyst in town was whispering about.

The safety violations that Morrison employees have been complaining about for years. Alex, Mom started, but I held up a hand. You didn't bother to investigate the man you were so eager to marry off your daughter to because he represented everything you valued, money, status, power. You didn't care if he was good for her. You didn't even ask if she wanted to marry him. We thought she was happy, Dad said, weekly. No, you thought she was profitable. That's when Lily exploded. You ruined everything.

She launched herself at me with fury I hadn't seen since we were children fighting over toys. You destroyed my life. My engagement, my job, my future, all of it. Gone. I stood perfectly still as she hit me, her fists landing on my chest and shoulders without any real force behind them. She was sobbing now, ugly tears that had been building for years. You left me behind, she screamed. You broke first. You got to fall apart and be damaged and free, and I had to carry it all. Every expectation, every dream they couldn't put on you anymore, they put on me.

And I tried, Alex. I tried so hard to be perfect for them, and you just, you just destroyed it all. I know, I said quietly. I hate you. I hate you for leaving me alone with them. I hate you for being broken. I hate you for getting to give up when I never could. I know, I repeat it.

You don't know anything. But her voice was losing steam, her fury burning itself out like a wildfire running out of fuel. You don't know what it's like to smile until your face hurts and never feel anything real. You don't know what it's like to be so hungry you can't think straight but still pretend you're not eating because you're watching your figure. You don't know what it's like to let a man you can't stand put his hands on you because everyone says you should be grateful for his attention. She collapsed against me then, her anger finally exhausted, leaving only the broken little girl underneath. You were never supposed to carry this alone, I whispered, wrapping my arms

around her shaking form. And I'm here now. My brain may be able to be. My brain may be worked differently, but that doesn't make me less capable of loving you, of protecting you. We sank to the floor together, two broken pieces trying to remember how to be whole. She cried against my shoulder, deep, wrenching sobs that seemed to come from her soul. I held her tight and let her tears soak into my shirt, feeling like I was finally home after years of wandering in the wilderness. I'm sorry, she hiccoped when the worst of the storm had passed. I'm so sorry, Alex. I know it wasn't your fault. I know you didn't choose to have ADHD.

I just. I was so angry, and I didn't know who else to blame. You don't have to apologize for being angry. You have every right to be angry. But not at you. Not for being neurodivergent. Maybe a little bit at me. I should have seen what they were doing to you.

ADHD might make me miss social cues sometimes, but I should have noticed my own sister drowning. She pulled back to look at me, her face streaked with mascara and snot and more beautiful than I'd seen her in years. Did you really do all this for me? Every bit of it. Even knowing I hated you. You never hated me. You hated what they turned us into.

I did too. She laughed through her tears, and for a moment I could see the little girl who used to paint murals and dream of adventure. So what do we do now? I looked over at our parents, who'd been watching our breakdown with the helpless confusion of people who'd never understood that love was supposed to be unconditional. Now we figure out who we want to be, I said. Together Part 10, Quiet Victory slash Sisters Freedom.

Six months later, my new office isn't much to look at, a converted warehouse in the arts district, exposed brick walls and concrete floors, secondhand furniture that doesn't match. but it's mine, and more importantly, it's designed for how my brain works. Quiet spaces for hyperfocus, collaboration areas for brainstorming, flexible schedules that accommodate my natural rhythms. The business is growing steadily, and more importantly, I wake up every morning knowing I'm building something real with my neurodivergent strengths rather than despite them. Lily started working for me three weeks ago, handling client relations while she figures out

what comes next. She's still too thin, still jumps when phones ring too loudly, but she's laughing again. Real laughter, not the careful performance art our parents taught her. Yesterday I found her in the break room, sketching in a notebook she thought no one would notice. Her drawings are different now, darker, more complex than the bright watercolors of her childhood, but alive in a way her perfect performance never was. Thinking about art school. I asked, settling beside her with my coffee. Maybe.

She shaded the eyes of a figure that looked suspiciously like our mother. I'm 25. Feels too late to start over. You're not starting over. You're starting. She smiled, the first genuine smile I'd seen from her since she was 17. When did you get so wise? When I stopped trying to be what other people wanted me to be and started embracing how my brain actually works.

Our parents call occasionally, usually when they need something, money, connections, forgiveness they haven't earned. They've moved to a smaller house across town, their social circle diminished but not eliminated. Mom volunteers at the library now. Dad plays golf with insurance salesmen instead of CEOs. They're not happy, exactly, but they're no longer. actively destroying their daughter's lives, which feels like progress. Marcus Morrison is serving 18 months for embezzlement and fraud. The last I heard, he was teaching financial literacy classes to other inmates.

I hope he's learned something about the real cost of greed. Lily is applying to graduate programs in art therapy, drawn to the idea of helping other people rebuild themselves after trauma. She says she's finally figured out what she wants to do with her life, for the first time, the decision is entirely hers. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we'd just talk to each other? She asked me last week as we walked through the park where we used to play as children. If we'd been honest about what we were going through instead of suffering alone. Every day, I admitted. But maybe we had to break separately before we could heal together.

Maybe. Or maybe we were just kids trying to survive parents who loved their dreams more than their daughters. She's right, of course. We were both pawns in a game we never agreed to play, sacrificed on the altar of other people's ambitions. But we're not pawns anymore. The sun was setting as we walked, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that reminded me of her old watercolors. She'd started painting again, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. Her apartment is full of canvases now, abstracts mostly, swirls of color that seemed to move in the light. I'm proud of you, I told her as we reached our old tree, the one where we built fairy houses and whispered secrets. For what? For choosing yourself?

Finally. She leaned against the trunk, running her fingers over the bark where we'd carved our initials years ago. We both did. We were both their pawns, Alex. But now, now we're finally free. The words hung between us like a promise, like a prayer answered, like the beginning of something we'd never dared to imagine when we were small girls dreaming under glow-in-the-dark stars. We'd lost years to other people's expectations, but we'd found each other again, and that felt like the most important victory of all. As we walked home in the gathering darkness, I realized that some prisons are made of gold, some dreams are other people's nightmares, and sometimes the greatest act of love is helping someone break the chains they didn't even know they were wearing.

We were finally free. Both of us. And that was worth everything it had cost to get here. The end.