"The Art Of Survival: Finding Strength in The Shadows

"Over the years, mornings became a routine, responsibilities shifted, but the weight never lessened."

Years passed, dragging them forward whether they were ready or not.

Diane learned to adapt. She learned how to live with less, how to survive in a world that didn't cater to wealth and luxury. She worked harder, studied more, refused to let anyone look down on her and Dalian.

Time softened the sharp edges of their grief, but it never erased them. The house, once unfamiliar and suffocating, become something they could navigate through routine.

The house still wasn't home, but they had learned how to live in it.

Diane woke to the sound of soft crying. It wasn't Dalian. It was the baby.

She opened her eyes to the dim glow of morning light filtering through the small window. The air was cold. The blankets, too thin. She could hear Aunt Beatrice in the next room, her voice hushed and tired, whispering something to calm the baby.

Dalian was already awake. She sat on the edge of the bed, her small hands smoothing out the creases in the sheets. The loose strands of her hair stuck to her face, but she didn't seem to notice.

Neither of them spoke.

Diane pushed off the blankets and stood, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She glanced at the dresser in the corner, the chipped wooden surface holding a single framed photo—one of Aunt Beatrice's wedding pictures. Nothing of them. Nothing of the past.

Dalian moved to the doorway, peeking out. The baby's cries had softened, replaced by the quiet murmurs of Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Gerald's tired shuffle through the house.

Mornings followed the same rhythm.

Diane washed her face in the tiny bathroom, the cold water shocking against her skin. Dalian went to the kitchen first, setting the table without being asked. When Diane entered, she saw Aunt Beatrice adjusting the baby in her arms, her movements slow, exhausted.

Uncle Gerald sat at the table, flipping through the newspaper, steam rising from his untouched cup of coffee.

Dalian pulled out the chairs.

Diane sat down.

The breakfast was simple—toast, eggs, and tea that was too weak to be called tea at all. They ate in silence.

Aunt Beatrice rocked the baby gently, her attention fixed on the tiny bundle in her arms. She hadn't even glanced at them.

Dalian's gaze flickered toward her once, lips parting as if she wanted to say something. But she didn't.

Diane set her fork down, the metal clinking against the plate. "I'll be going to school early today."

Aunt Beatrice hummed in acknowledgment, but it was absentminded, distracted.

Dalian shifted slightly. "I'll clean up breakfast before I leave."

Aunt Beatrice finally looked up. "Mm. And watch the baby for a bit before you go. She barely slept last night."

Dalian nodded. No protest. No hesitation.

Diane pressed her lips together.

They had learned how to live here. How to adapt. But no matter how much time passed, the weight of obligation never lifted.

Starting High Schools.

The school building loomed ahead, a dull gray against the early morning sky.

Diane stepped through the entrance first, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The hallways smelled of cheap cleaning products and damp fabric, students brushing past her in a blur of navy uniforms.

Dalian trailed behind, her steps quieter, smaller.

The classroom was already half-full. Diane took a seat by the window, pulling out her textbooks, flipping through pages she had already memorized. The noise of students chatting, laughing, filling the space with their presence—it all felt distant, like something happening in another world.

Dalian sat near the middle, placing her hands neatly on the desk, her eyes darting toward the group of girls talking at the front of the room. Their conversation was light, effortless.

Dalian didn't join in.

She focused on smoothing out the sleeve of her uniform, fingers pressing into the fabric as if trying to disappear into it.

The teacher entered. The class settled.

Diane paid attention.

Dalian remained quiet.

The day passed in a blur of numbers and words, of questions and answers. Diane excelled, as she always did. Her hand shot up before anyone else's, her responses crisp, exact. The teacher praised her. She nodded.

Dalian watched.

Lunch came. Diane stayed in the classroom, eating alone at her desk. Dalian walked through the cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning for a place to sit. The tables were full of groups, of conversations she wasn't part of.

She sat in the corner, eating slowly.

The day ended.

Diane gathered her books, already thinking about tomorrow's assignments.

Dalian walked beside her, her silence heavier than her steps.

Aunt Beatrice's arms were full—always occupied with the baby, always too tired to notice anything else.

Dalian filled the empty spaces.

She learned how to quiet the baby's cries, how to rock her to sleep, how to change diapers and fold tiny clothes. She never had to be asked. It was just understood.

Diane didn't help.

She didn't have time.

Her nights were spent hunched over textbooks, pages marked with red ink, fingers gripping the edge of her pencil until her knuckles turned white. School was her only escape.

Dalian's was the baby.

She hummed lullabies while Diane solved equations.

She cleaned up toys while Diane wrote essays.

She stayed. Diane moved forward.

Aunt Beatrice stopped thanking her. It became expected.

And Dalian never complained.

The next day at school.

The library lights buzzed overhead, casting a soft glow over the rows of bookshelves.

Diane sat at a desk in the farthest corner, her notebook open, pages filled with notes. The rest of the students sat in clusters, studying together, voices hushed but constant.

Diane didn't join them.

She didn't have time for friendships. She didn't need them.

She flipped the page.

At home, Dalian was probably rocking the baby to sleep.

At school, she was just another quiet girl in the background.

She struggled in some subjects, but she never asked for help. She was used to figuring things out on her own.

The days blurred together, identical in their quiet struggles.

Diane excelled.

Dalian endured.

One night, the house was quiet except for the baby's soft breathing.

Diane sat at the table, a textbook open in front of her. The numbers on the page blurred together, exhaustion tugging at the edges of her focus.

Dalian walked past, carrying a basket of freshly folded baby clothes. She hesitated, glancing at Diane's book.

"You're still studying?" Her voice was soft, careful.

Diane didn't look up. "Because if I stop, I lose. And I refuse to lose again."

Dalian lingered for a moment before nodding.

She turned away.

Diane's grip on her pen tightened.

She never asked if Dalian needed help.

Dalian never said if she did.

The gap between them widened.

Neither of them reached across it.

And so, the silence remained.

Diane's Obsession with Studying

The desk lamp flickered, casting long shadows against the walls of the small room.

Diane sat with her elbows on the table, her hand gripping a pen tightly. The textbook in front of her was open, but the words blurred together, twisting into something else—something darker.

Lucas.

She could still hear his voice, still see the cold amusement in his eyes.

Did he laugh that night?

Her fingers clenched around the pen.

No. She wouldn't think about that. Not now.

She inhaled sharply and forced herself to focus on the equations in front of her. Numbers were simple. Numbers made sense. There was no deception in numbers. No betrayal.

The house was silent except for the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards.

Dalian had already gone to bed.

Diane glanced toward the closed door, her mind briefly wandering.

Was she sleeping? Or still taking care of the baby?

Dalian never complained.

Diane pressed her fingers against her temple, exhaling slowly.

She had to study.

She had to be the best.

It was the only way to make sure no one could take anything from them ever again.

The scent of garlic and onions sizzling in hot oil filled the small kitchen. The rich aroma curled through the air, wrapping the space in warmth.

Dalian stood by the counter, watching Aunt Beatrice move with practiced ease. She chopped vegetables swiftly, tossing them into a bubbling pot of stew. The rhythmic clatter of the knife against the wooden board, the gentle hiss of the broth—it all felt strangely soothing.

Dalian didn't know when she started enjoying it.

At first, she only lingered in the kitchen because she had to. Aunt Beatrice had given her chores, and cooking was just another task to be done. But over time, she found herself drawn to the way flavors blended, how a pinch of salt could bring out the sweetness of tomatoes, how a slow simmer made the meat tender.

Aunt Beatrice stirred the pot, then glanced at her. "Dalian, pass me the thyme."

Dalian quickly handed over the small bundle of fragrant leaves, watching as Aunt Beatrice crushed them between her fingers before sprinkling them into the stew.

"Smell that?" Aunt Beatrice said. "That's the magic of fresh herbs. They wake the dish up."

Dalian leaned closer, inhaling. The scent had deepened, richer now. She nodded, something warm settling in her chest.

Aunt Beatrice wiped her hands on her apron and turned to her. "Do you want to try?"

Dalian hesitated. "Me?"

Aunt Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "You've been watching for weeks now. You might as well learn properly."

Dalian's fingers twitched with excitement.

She stepped forward, picking up the wooden spoon. The stew swirled as she stirred, the steam rising to kiss her face.

Aunt Beatrice smiled. "Good. Now taste it."

Dalian scooped a little broth onto a spoon and blew on it carefully before taking a sip.

The warmth spread through her, rich and comforting.

Aunt Beatrice studied her. "Well?"

Dalian's lips curved into a small smile. "It's… good."

Aunt Beatrice chuckled. "Not just good. Perfect. Now, go set the table."

Dalian obeyed, but as she placed the bowls down, she realized something.

For the first time since coming to this house, she had found something that made her feel at ease.

Something that was hers.

Cooking.

"Dalian had found something for herself. A way to breathe. But Diane had no such luxury. Not yet."

The Contrast Between Sisters

Dinner was quiet, like most nights.

Dalian placed a bowl in front of Diane, but her sister barely acknowledged it, flipping through her notebook instead.

"You need to eat," Dalian murmured.

Diane finally looked up, glancing at the steaming bowl of stew. "I will."

Dalian sighed, sitting across from her.

Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Gerald were already eating, discussing something about work. The baby was asleep in the next room, leaving only the soft clinking of utensils to fill the space.

Dalian took a bite. The stew was warm, rich, comforting.

But when she looked up, she saw Diane taking hurried spoonfuls without really tasting it, her eyes still fixed on her notes.

Dalian hesitated before speaking. "Diane… why don't you take a break? Just for tonight?"

Diane's jaw tightened. "I can't."

"You barely sleep," Dalian pressed. "You barely eat."

Diane exhaled sharply, closing her notebook. "And what do you want me to do, Dalian? Pretend everything is fine? Pretend we aren't stuck here?"

Dalian flinched at the sharpness in her voice.

Aunt Beatrice cleared her throat. "Enough of that at the table."

Diane clenched her teeth but didn't argue.

Dalian lowered her gaze to her bowl.

She wished she knew how to help her sister.

But Diane had built walls around herself, and no matter how hard Dalian tried, she couldn't break through.

The next day.

The school hallway buzzed with activity. Students rushed to their next classes, conversations blending into a dull roar.

Dalian walked through the crowd quietly, keeping her head down.

"Dalian, wait up!"

She turned, startled.

Lydia grinned at her. "You always walk so fast. I had to jog to catch up!"

Dalian blinked. "Oh… sorry."

Lydia waved a hand. "Don't be. Anyway, do you want to sit together at lunch today?"

Dalian hesitated. She had never really sat with anyone before.

But something in Lydia's smile was warm, welcoming.

"Okay," she said softly.

Lydia's grin widened. "Great! See you then."

For the first time in a long while, Dalian felt something light in her chest.

Maybe… this could be nice.

The moment Dalian stepped into the house, Diane was waiting.

"You made a friend," Diane said flatly.

Dalian frowned. "Lydia's nice—"

"You don't know that."

Dalian crossed her arms. "Not everyone is bad, Diane."

Diane's expression was unreadable. "People pretend, Dalian. They act kind until they don't need you anymore. And then they leave."

Dalian inhaled sharply.

"Not everyone is like that," she said quietly.

Diane didn't respond.

She just turned and walked toward her desk, opening her books again.

Dalian stood there for a long moment before heading to the kitchen.

She turned on the stove, started chopping vegetables.

The rhythm of cooking soothed her.

But deep down, she wished she could understand the sister who had become a stranger.

The night stretched on.

A dim bulb flickered above the small dining table, casting long shadows against the walls. The scent of something warm—soup, perhaps—lingered in the air, but the plates on the table remained untouched.

Diane sat by the window, her textbooks spread before her, the dim light barely enough to illuminate the words. But she didn't need light. She had read these pages enough times to know them by heart. Yet, she stared at them, her mind elsewhere, lost in memories she couldn't erase.

Lucas. The name was carved into her thoughts, an echo that refused to fade. She imagined him sitting in their father's office, behind that grand desk, wearing a title that wasn't his to claim. She imagined him smirking, thinking he had won.

But power was an illusion. And one day, illusions shattered.

Across the room, Dalian moved quietly, gathering plates, wiping the counters. She had grown accustomed to the weight of responsibility, slipping into the role without complaint. The baby stirred in the crib, and with practiced ease, she soothed him, her voice a gentle hum, her fingers brushing against his tiny hand.

Cooking had become her solace. She had watched Aunt Beatrice in the kitchen, learning the rhythm of slicing, stirring, seasoning. The way ingredients transformed under careful hands. It was one of the few things in this house that made her feel… steady.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

Lydia.

Dalian hesitated before opening it, her heart lifting slightly at the sight of her only friend. Lydia grinned, holding up a small bag. "I brought something sweet. Want to share?"

Dalian smiled, stepping aside. But before she could respond, Diane's voice cut through the air.

"Not tonight."

Dalian turned, her brow furrowed. "Diane—"

Diane didn't look up from her book. "You shouldn't trust people so easily."

Lydia shifted awkwardly, casting a glance at Dalian. "I should go."

Dalian's chest tightened as she watched her friend leave. Silence settled once more, thick and heavy.

Diane didn't look away from her pages, but her grip on the book tightened.

She was protecting her sister. Even if it meant pushing people away.

Somewhere far away, in an office drowning in shadows, Lucas and Maria reveled in their empire.

But cracks were forming.

And one day, everything would break.