People think being a twin means sharing everything — the same face, the same smile, the same life. But the truth is, Daniel and I live in two different worlds.
He's the one they bully.
I see it every day — the shoves in the hallway, the laughter when his books hit the floor, the bruises he tries to cover when we walk home. They don't care that I look just like him. To them, Daniel is weak, and weakness is blood in the water.
And I just stand there.
My fists clench so tight my nails cut into my palms. My chest burns with anger, with shame. But I don't move. I don't say anything. Because I know the truth: if I step in, they'll just drag me down with him. Then what? Two of us broken instead of one? It's a coward's excuse, and I hate myself for it.
The worst part isn't the bullying. It's the look in his eyes afterward. He doesn't blame me. Not once. When we get home, he just lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling like he's somewhere else, and when I finally look at him, he gives me this tiny smile — like he's the one comforting me. Like he's saying, It's okay, Sam. Don't carry this for me.
But I do. I carry it every day.
We're twins. His pain is mine, even if I don't wear it on my skin. And every time I watch him take another hit, every time I force myself to keep walking when my body screams to fight back, I make myself a promise:
One day, I'll find the strength to protect him.
Until then, all I can do is endure the silence, the guilt, the helplessness.
Daniel takes the blows, but I'm the one who bleeds inside.
So I decided to change that.
One day while I was just doing my usual walk alone to my class at school. By accident our school had this small wrestling club — barely anyone joined, so the coach practically begged for new members. I didn't have the money for lessons, but he waved it off. Said if I was willing to work hard, I could stay for free.
At first, I almost said no. Wrestling? Me? I wasn't strong, I wasn't fast. I didn't even like fighting. But then I thought about Daniel. I thought about the way he smiled at me through his bruises, telling me without words that he was fine. And the anger in me boiled.
I couldn't just keep standing by.
So I joined.
The first practices were hell. I hit the mats over and over, slammed into the ground until I could barely breathe. My body screamed at me to quit, but every time I thought of walking away, I saw Daniel's face in my mind. That was enough to drag me back to my feet.
Little by little, I started to understand. Wrestling wasn't about throwing fists or looking tough. It was about control. Balance. Using your body in ways that could pin someone twice your size. The coach said it was about learning to endure — to stay calm under pressure until the moment came to strike.
Endure.
That word stuck with me. Because that's what I'd been doing my whole life, wasn't it? Enduring.
I wasn't strong yet. Not enough to protect Daniel. But I felt something I hadn't in a long time: hope. For once, I wasn't just standing still, watching him take the hits. I was moving. Growing.
And one day… I swear ill be ready.