I was born into duty.
Even before I learned to walk, I was already hearing the words "You're the eldest."
It felt like a curse carved into my skin.
There was no need for anyone to explain what it meant—every move I made, every decision, every mistake carried a weight that never left my shoulders.
While my siblings learned how to ask and receive, I learned how to sacrifice and give.
If there was a single piece of bread, it was theirs. If there were new clothes, they were for them.
I was the one who learned to make do with the old, to sew what was torn, and to smile as if that were enough.
At a young age, I became the protector, the teacher, the cook, the caretaker.
While my parents were lost in their own worlds—one with work, the other with vices—I was the one left in the middle, holding both ends together so the family wouldn't completely fall apart.
But no matter what I did, I was still wrong.
If I spoke, I was disrespectful. If I stayed silent, I was disobedient. If I made a mistake, it was all my fault. If I succeeded, it was nothing special—it was just expected.
I grew up used to pain, but that doesn't mean I didn't feel it.
With every lecture, every shout, every disappointed stare, the child inside me faded little by little.
What was left was an old soul in a young body—always tired, always lacking, always never enough.
And every time I saw my siblings laughing, playing, finding joy in things I never got to experience, I felt even more how far apart we were.
I was the eldest. I was the shield. I was the one meant to carry it all.
So that night—when all I had left were tears and a trembling heart—I decided to leave.
I didn't know where I was going.
All I had was a backpack, a little money, and a heart completely shattered.
As I walked down the dark road, carrying the wounds of being the eldest, I felt like maybe this was the end.
That maybe this was where everything I had been forcing myself to carry would finally stop.
But I was wrong.
Because before I could lose myself completely in the void, a van stopped in front of me.
It was black, sleek, and unfamiliar—except for one thing: the crimson insignia painted on its side.
And that's when I remembered a paper I once signed.
An application form I had filled out when I was desperate to find a way to escape—even if only through an illusion.
I didn't know why that van stopped for me, or why a stranger opened the door and spoke my name as if they had been waiting for me all along.
But one thing was certain.
That night, I didn't just leave as a broken eldest child. That night, I began to become me.