ELIAS POV

From the very beginning, I think the world decided I was second.

They say Alex and I were born minutes apart, but in my mind, those few minutes stretched into years,into something vast and unbridgeable . A lifetime of difference packed into thin hospital blankets and whispered judgments. I don’t remember the warmth of a first touch or the comfort of a lullaby hummed just for me. What I remember,what settled into my bones long before I could speak,was being set aside.

I learned that memory doesn’t always come in images. Sometimes it comes in feelings that never leave. The hollow sense of being unnecessary. The quiet certainty that even when I cried, I was doing it alone.

The nurses adored Alex.

I remember their voices before I remember their faces. Soft, reverent, almost musical as they hovered over his crib.

“Such a beautiful omega…”

“He’s so strong already.”

“A dominant omega, can you imagine?”

Their hands were gentle with him. They adjusted his blankets, brushed their fingers through his dark curls, smiled like they were looking at something rare and precious.

When they looked at me, their smiles didn’t twist into cruelty. That would have hurt less. No,what I got was worse. Indifference. A glance that slid past me as if I were part of the furniture. Something present, but unimportant.

I was fed. I was cleaned. I was kept alive.

But no one lingered.

At home, the difference became impossible to ignore.

Alex was dressed like a promise. Lace-trimmed clothes. Soft fabrics that never touched the floor. Tiny ribbons tied carefully around his wrist, as if the world needed to be reminded that he mattered. That he was special.

I wore whatever was left.

Hand-me-downs folded without care. Clothes that smelled faintly of dust and old drawers, of a past that wasn’t mine and never would be. If something was torn or faded, it came to me. If something fit awkwardly, that was my problem.

Relatives visited often in those early years. They came bearing gifts,wrapped boxes, pastel ribbons, soft toys that jingled when shaken. They gathered around Alex like moths to light, lifting him up, passing him from arm to arm.

“He’s gorgeous.”

“Look at those eyes.”

“You’ll break hearts one day.”

Someone would laugh. Someone would kiss his cheek.

And me?

I stood in corners. Behind chairs. Near doorframes. Small hands clenched at my sides, watching as love moved freely around me but never reached.

Sometimes, a relative would pause, frown slightly, and ask, “Oh… and this one?”

My mother would glance at me briefly. Just long enough to acknowledge my existence.

“That’s Elias,” she’d say. No pride. No warmth. Just a name. “His brother.”

Never my son. Always Alex’s extra.

I learned early how to make myself quiet. How to take up less space. How to disappear without anyone asking where I’d gone.

“Your brother is a dominant omega,” my mother would say proudly, smoothing Alex’s curls, her voice filled with a hope so bright it hurt to hear. “He’ll be chosen by a powerful alpha. He’ll change our lives forever.”

She never turned to look at me when she said it.

Not once.

I didn’t know what a dominant omega truly meant back then. I didn’t understand hierarchy or fate or bonds. But I understood tone. I understood the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about Alex,and the way they dulled when they passed over me.

So I learned something important, something cruel.

I was not an investment.

Not a hope.

Not a dream.

I was the extra child that came with Alex.

As we grew older, the gap between us widened.

Alex laughed easily. His smiles were effortless, practiced without effort. People responded to him instinctively, like his presence pulled something warm out of them. Teachers praised him. Neighbors commented on his beauty. Even strangers seemed drawn to him.

I existed beside him like a shadow,always present, never noticed unless I stepped out of line.

When Alex cried, my mother rushed. When I cried, she sighed.

“What’s wrong with you now, Elias?”

“You’re too sensitive.”

“Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

My father was worse in his own way. He didn’t pretend to care. He looked at me like a disappointment that had somehow learned to breathe.

“Too quiet,” he’d mutter.

“Too plain.”

“Too weak.”

I tried, once. I tried to speak louder, to laugh when Alex laughed, to show excitement when others did. But it felt wrong,like wearing someone else’s skin. The harder I tried, the more invisible I became.

Eventually, I stopped.

At night, when the house grew quiet and the walls felt thinner, I would sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my reflection in a dull, warped mirror. I searched for something ,anything that might explain why I was so easy to overlook.

Was my nose wrong?

My eyes too soft?

My face too forgettable?

I tilted my head. Squinted. Pressed my fingers into my cheeks, as if shaping myself into something better.

But no matter how long I looked, I never found it.

There was nothing special staring back at me. Just a boy with tired eyes and a mouth that forgot how to smile.

So I stopped looking.

I stopped wanting things I couldn’t have. I stopped expecting warmth where there had never been any. I learned to accept scraps of attention with gratitude and swallow disappointment before it showed on my face.

Hope became something dangerous. Something foolish.

And then came the whispers.

Adults thought children didn’t listen. They were wrong.

“He’s just… ordinary.”

“All the luck went to the other twin.”

“At least one of them turned out well.”

I learned to stay silent when they spoke. Learned that answering back only made things worse. Learned that my worth was measured not by who I was, but by who I wasn’t.

Not Alex.

Never Alex.

Sometimes, late at night, I would hear my parents talking in low voices behind closed doors.

“We’re lucky, you know,” my mother would say.

“With Alex, our future is secure.”

“And the other one?” my father would ask, dismissive.

A pause. Then..

“He’ll manage.”

That was all I ever was.

Something that would manage.

I learned to take care of myself early. To tie my own shoes, tend my own scrapes, swallow my own tears. When I got sick, I lay quietly, afraid that making noise would only annoy them.

Pain became familiar. Loneliness even more so.

Alex never noticed. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t know how to reach me. He lived in a different world a brighter one. A kinder one.

Sometimes, I wondered what it would feel like to be chosen. To be looked at and seen. To have someone’s eyes soften when they met mine.

But wanting that hurt too much.

So I buried it.

I told myself I didn’t need anyone. That I was fine alone. That being forgotten was safer than being rejected.

And in that silence,somewhere between being ignored and being erased,I taught myself the most dangerous lesson of all:

That love was not meant for me.

That I existed on the edges of other people’s lives.

That I was born second… and would always come last.

I didn’t know then that this belief would follow me into every room, every relationship, every choice I would ever make.

I only knew this:

If the world had already decided my place, then all I could do was survive it.

Alone.

Elias POV

The first day of middle school was supposed to be exciting.

That’s what everyone said, anyway. New beginnings. Clean slates. A chance to become someone new. I held onto that idea the way someone clings to a fragile lie carefully, desperately, afraid that one wrong move would shatter it.

I remember standing at the iron gates that morning, my backpack stiff and identical to Alex’s, my uniform pressed so neatly it almost felt uncomfortable. The air buzzed with voices and laughter and the sharp scent of anticipation. My heart beat fast, not with excitement, but with hope,quiet, trembling hope.

Maybe here, nobody would know.

Maybe among strangers, I could finally just be… Elias.

Not the unwanted one.

Not the second twin.

Not the shadow.

Just me.

I stayed close enough to Alex that no one would question why we arrived together, but far enough that I could pretend just for a moment that we were separate people. That my life wasn’t permanently tethered to his.

The illusion lasted less than a minute.

“He’s here,” someone whispered behind me, voice sharp with awe. “The pretty omega.”

“I heard he’s even prettier in real life.”

“Which one is him?”

I felt it before I saw it the shift. The subtle pull of attention, like gravity changing direction. Bodies turned. Voices hushed and then rose again, excited, reverent. I watched heads tilt and eyes search until they landed on Alex.

And just like that, it was over.

They moved toward him in a wave. Students crowded around before the bell even rang, smiling too brightly, standing too close. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else pushed forward, eager to be seen.

I stood barely a few steps away.

It felt like watching through thick glass ,close enough to see everything clearly, far enough that none of it could touch me. I saw the way their eyes lit up when they recognized him, how smiles bloomed without effort, how their bodies leaned toward him instinctively, like flowers turning toward the sun.

A girl rushed past me, shoulder slamming into mine hard enough to make me stumble.

“Sorry,” she said automatically but she didn’t look at my face. Her attention had already snapped back to Alex.

I didn’t matter.

No one even noticed I’d been hit.

Alex smiled, a little awkwardly at first, then more confidently as the attention settled on him like something familiar. Like something he had always belonged to. He laughed when someone complimented him. He blushed when an alpha leaned in too close

I wondered what that felt like.

To be wanted without trying.

The bell rang, sharp and shrill, cutting through the noise. Teachers herded us into lines, barking instructions. The crowd thinned, but the hierarchy had already been established.

In class, it only became clearer.

Alex sat near the front, surrounded by curious glances and whispered conversations. Teachers looked at him differently softened, like their edges had been dulled just for him. When he answered a question, their smiles were warm and genuine.

“Excellent, Alex.”

“Very good insight.”

“You’re quite impressive for your age.”

They spoke his name like it mattered.

I raised my hand once. Then twice.

My arm grew tired.

The teacher’s eyes skimmed over me, lingering on Alex instead.

“Anyone else?” she asked.

I lowered my hand slowly, heat crawling up my neck. The answer I’d prepared carefully dissolved on my tongue. It didn’t matter if I knew it. It never did.

By midday, I understood my place.

At lunch, I sat at the edge of the table Alex was surrounded by. Not invited, not chased away just tolerated. Conversations flowed around me like water around a stone. People laughed at Alex’s jokes, even the ones that barely made sense. Alphas hovered, eager to impress, their voices deeper, their postures straighter. Betas watched him with open admiration, envy sharp in their eyes.

No one spoke to me directly.

I picked at my food, appetite gone, listening.

Someone pointed at me with their fork.

“Hey,” they asked casually, “who’s that?”

For a heartbeat, hope flared. Maybe,just maybe someone would say my name.

“Oh,” another voice replied, dismissive. “That’s just Alex’s brother.”

Just.

Alex’s.

Brother.

The words hit harder than I expected. They hollowed something out inside me, scooping away whatever fragile sense of self I’d been clinging to.

Not Elias.

Not a person.

I stopped trying to speak after that.

What was the point? Even if I opened my mouth, my voice would disappear beneath Alex’s existence. So I watched instead. Watched him shine effortlessly. Watched the world choose him again and again, as if there had never been any other option.

With every smile thrown his way, something in my chest cracked a little more.

It hurt.

A deep, persistent ache that pressed against my ribs and made breathing feel like work. But I swallowed it down, the way I’d learned to swallow everything else.

Because what else could I do?

By the end of the week, everyone knew him.

Teachers. Students. Even people from other classes found excuses to pass by, to catch a glimpse. His name traveled faster than he did. I heard it whispered in hallways, scribbled in notebooks, spoken with awe.

Alex adjusted easily. He learned how to smile at the right moments, how to deflect unwanted attention politely, how to exist in the spotlight without burning.

I learned how to disappear better.

I memorized the quiet corners of the school. The places where no one lingered. I walked a step behind him, a step to the side, always careful not to be mistaken for something important.

Sometimes, someone would look at me twice.

Confusion would flicker across their face.

“Wait… are you...?”

“No,” I would say softly, before they could finish. “I’m not him.”

And just like that, they lost interest.

At night, I lay awake replaying the day in my head. Every ignored hand. Every passing glance. Every time my name went unspoken. I wondered if this was how it would always be if my life would forever exist in the margins of someone else’s story.

I was tired.

Tired of hoping.

Tired of hurting.

Tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

So I made a decision ,quiet, unspoken, but firm.

If the world had already chosen Alex, then I would stop trying to compete. I would stop reaching for things that were never meant for me. I would learn to survive in the background, where expectations couldn’t crush me.

I would become small.

Unnoticeable.

Safe.

And as Alex’s star continued to rise, I let myself fade convinced that this was the only way not to break completely.

Elias’s POV

A few years later in High school

I didn’t notice him at first.

That wasn’t unusual. I had trained myself not to notice people unless they forced themselves into my world. Loud voices, bright laughter, confident footsteps.The ones who filled space without apology.

Max was none of those things.

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t orbit Alex like everyone else, pulled helplessly into my brother’s gravity. He didn’t compete for attention or try to be impressive. He existed quietly, almost cautiously, like someone who had learned that being unseen was sometimes safer.

In hindsight, that should have been my first sign.

I only really noticed him because of the seating chart.

History class. Third period. The teacher walked in with a clipboard and that look adults get when they’re about to rearrange your entire sense of comfort.

“New seats today,” she announced.

A collective groan followed. I didn’t react. I was used to change. Used to being moved, overlooked, placed wherever there was space.

“Elias,” she said.

I stiffened.

“Max. You’ll be sitting next to Elias.”

I looked up instinctively, panic blooming in my chest. Sitting next to someone meant being seen. It meant the risk of comparison. Of questions. Of being reduced to Alex’s brother all over again.

I slid into my seat and made myself smaller, shoulders hunched, eyes on my notebook. I didn’t even look at the person beside me.

Then...

“Hey.”

The voice was quiet. Not demanding. Not sharp.

I glanced sideways.

He was smiling.

Not the polite, fleeting smile people gave when they were being nice out of obligation. This one was warm. Genuine. Like it wasn’t going anywhere even if I didn’t respond.

“You’re Elias, right?” he asked.

My heart skipped.

Nobody ever said my name.

Not without attaching Alex to it. Not without turning it into a clarification or an afterthought.

“Yeah,” I answered slowly, like the word might be wrong in my mouth. Like it didn’t fully belong to me.

“I’m Max.”

That was it.

No mention of my brother. No curiosity about my twin. No sideways glance toward Alex’s seat like everyone else did.

Just me.

Something inside my chest shifted, small and cautious, like a door cracking open after years of being sealed shut.

The class went on, dates and wars blurring together on the board, but I barely heard any of it. I was acutely aware of Max beside me not invading my space, not ignoring me either. Just… present.

At some point, he leaned over slightly.

“You write really fast,” he murmured. “And your notes are neat. You’re pretty smart.”

I froze.

My pen slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the desk.

Smart.

The word echoed painfully in my head. No teacher had ever said it to me. No student had ever noticed. I’d always been the quiet one, the invisible one.

“Oh,” I said, stupidly. “I just… write a lot.”

He smiled again. “Still counts.”

I picked up my pen with shaking fingers, my face burning.

It was such a small thing. A passing comment. But it felt like someone had reached into my chest and gently touched something I didn’t even know was still alive.

At lunch, instinct pulled me toward my usual spot the far end of the table, where conversation thinned and people rarely stayed longer than a minute. Alex was already surrounded, laughter spilling outward, attention clinging to him like perfume.

I sat down quietly and unwrapped my food.

A moment later, someone sat beside me.

I looked up, startled.

Max.

“Do you always sit here?” he asked, glancing around.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Mind if I join you?”

The question stunned me.

People didn’t ask to sit with me. They sat near Alex. Or they passed by. Or they forgot I existed entirely.

“I... okay,” I said.

He stayed.

Not for a moment. Not out of pity. He actually stayed.

We ate together in a comfortable, tentative silence at first. Then he asked what I was reading. I told him. He admitted he liked books too ,the quiet kind, the ones people thought were boring.

I found myself talking.

Really talking.

About stories I loved. About the library corner that smelled like old paper and safety. About thoughts I’d kept locked in my head because no one had ever seemed interested in hearing them.

Max listened.

Not the distracted listening people did while waiting for their turn to speak. He watched me, eyes focused, nodding softly, asking questions that showed he cared about the answers.

And then he laughed.

Not loud. Not exaggerated.

A real laugh warm and surprised, like I’d said something genuinely funny.

The sound settled in my chest and stayed there.

That afternoon, he waited for me after class.

“I walk this way,” he said casually.

So did I.

Soon, it became a habit. Walking together. Sitting together. Existing together in a way that felt natural and terrifying all at once.

The first time he touched me, I almost missed it.

We were sitting side by side, knees close, hidden beneath the table. His fingers brushed mine once, accidental. Then again.

I didn’t pull away.

My heart slammed against my ribs, breath shallow, body frozen like prey.

Slowly, gently, his pinky hooked around mine.

The touch was so light I could have pretended it wasn’t real.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

I nodded, unable to find my voice.

No one had ever touched me like that.

From then on, Max became my safe place.

He walked me to class. Waited for me after school. Sat with me in quiet corners where the world couldn’t reach. Sometimes he leaned his forehead against mine, eyes closed, breathing steady.

“You’re special to me,” he whispered once, lips barely brushing my ear.

The word hit me like glass.

Special.

I had spent my entire life believing I was extra. Unwanted. A mistake that came bundled with my beautiful twin.

Now someone was saying that word like it was obvious. Like it was fact.

And I believed him.

I gave him everything.

My secrets , the nights I cried quietly, the way I’d learned to disappear. My fears , of being left, of being second, of never being enough.

My first kiss.

I remember how careful he was. How his hands trembled just a little, like he was afraid of hurting me. When he touched me, it wasn’t rushed or demanding. It was slow. Reverent. Like he was memorizing me, mapping out every inch of someone no one else had bothered to learn.

“See?” he whispered against my skin once. “You were just waiting for someone to see you properly.”

I clung to those words like a promise.

For the first time in my life, I was happy.

I smiled more. I raised my hand in class again. Teachers started noticing me really noticing me. I even caught Alex staring at me sometimes, confusion flickering in his eyes.

I didn’t mind.

For once, I wasn’t jealous of him.

I had my own light now.

My own love.

At night, I lay in bed replaying Max’s voice in my head.

And wrapped in that warmth, I thought , truly believed

Maybe this is finally my turn to be loved.

But I was wrong