Back in elementary school, Conan and I were absolutely inseparable. We ran through the forest trails together like wild things, digging up hidden treasures, daring each other to leap over creeks, shouting until our voices cracked. We were just kids then—two halves of the same whole, no roles, no ranks. Just siblings.
But things changed. Slowly at first. Then all at once.
I was the social one. People liked being around me. I could make them laugh, keep their attention. I liked the spotlight—it made me feel important, seen. And when I started presenting early as an alpha in fifth grade, everything escalated. I wasn't just Esme anymore—I was the Esme. The alpha girl with a future. The one teachers praised openly, who other kids looked to for leadership.
Conan? He didn't manifest anything. He started lagging behind—not academically, but socially. He kept to himself. I tried to bring him along, but he didn't try. He didn't speak. I stopped bothering.
