TO HATE IS DIVINE

The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking each passing second in the quiet of my room. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at a photo frame perched on the nightstand. It was a picture of Dorian and me on our first day of school, dressed identically in crisp uniforms, our shoes gleaming, and our smiles bright. But even then, something about us felt… unbalanced.

Dorian's grin reached his eyes, full of mischief and unshakable confidence, as if he already knew the world would love him. Mine, though similar, seemed smaller, reserved—a hesitant echo of his radiance.

I sighed and leaned back against the headboard. The image brought back memories I'd long tried to bury, yet they returned with sharp clarity, vivid and relentless.

Flashback: The School Event

The auditorium buzzed with anticipation, the hum of excited chatter blending with the occasional shuffling of chairs. Parents, students, and teachers filled the room, their faces alight with pride and expectation. I sat in the front row, hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

"And the award for Excellence in Athletics goes to… Dorian Wellington!" the headmaster announced, his voice booming through the microphone.

The room erupted into thunderous applause. My parents, seated a few rows behind me, were the first on their feet, clapping so enthusiastically you'd think they had won the award themselves. Dorian strode up to the stage, his head held high, his every movement exuding the effortless confidence I envied.

He took the microphone with a grin that could light up the entire room. "Thank you so much," he began, his voice warm and smooth. "This award isn't just for me; it's for everyone who's supported me—my teammates, my amazing coach, and, of course, my family."

The audience chuckled and clapped.

"And to my brother Leonard," he added with a wink, "who may not be on the field, but always has my back. I couldn't do it without you."

The crowd laughed and applauded again, and for a fleeting moment, I felt seen. But as Dorian continued to speak, charming everyone with his humor and sincerity, that moment slipped away.

Not long after, it was my turn. My science project—a robotic hand prototype I'd spent weeks perfecting—had earned me the award for Innovation in STEM.

"And the award for Innovation in STEM goes to… Leonard Wellington!"

The applause was polite, a stark contrast to the roaring ovation Dorian had received. I forced a smile as I made my way to the stage, my speech trembling in my hands. My voice faltered as I spoke, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

When I returned to my seat, I glanced back at my parents. Mom was leaning over to whisper something to Dad, her eyes glowing with pride—but not for me. Her gaze was fixed on Dorian, as if I'd never even been on that stage.

Family Gatherings and Quiet Achievements

Family gatherings were always a stage for Dorian.

"Dorian, tell everyone about the time you won the debate championship!" Mom would say, her voice brimming with excitement, her eyes sparkling.

And Dorian would rise to the occasion, his voice animated as he recounted the story. "So there I was," he'd begin, launching into the tale with dramatic flair. His gestures were captivating, his timing impeccable. Laughter rippled through the room as he delivered the punchline, and by the time he finished, everyone was clapping and congratulating him again.

Meanwhile, I sat in the corner, nursing a soda and waiting for someone—anyone—to ask about me. It wasn't as if I hadn't achieved anything. I'd aced my exams, won a regional coding competition, and even built an app that had garnered a small but dedicated user base. But none of it seemed to matter.

The spotlight was always on Dorian.

I often wondered if it was my fault.

Maybe I was too quiet, too reserved. Maybe my tendency to avoid the spotlight made me invisible. Dorian had a way of commanding attention without trying, while I slipped through rooms unnoticed, content to observe from the sidelines.

But was that really so wrong?

I remembered one time in school when I'd worked up the courage to share an idea during a group project. It was a simple but effective solution to a problem we'd been struggling with. My teammates nodded thoughtfully, and I felt a flicker of hope.

Then Dorian, who wasn't even part of the group, walked by and chimed in. "That's a great idea," he said, flashing his trademark grin. "Why don't you take the lead on it?"

When the project was praised, the teacher commended Dorian for his "leadership skills" in guiding the group. No one mentioned my name.

And then there was the time I practiced for weeks to play a piano piece at a family gathering. My fingers trembled as I started to play, the notes flowing smoothly at first. But halfway through, I noticed people losing interest. Conversations sprang up, laughter filled the room, and by the time I finished, only Mom was still listening—and even she clapped halfheartedly before turning to chat with a cousin.

No matter how hard I tried, the world seemed determined to overlook me.

Current Events: Struggles at Work

Adulthood hadn't changed much.

At work, I poured myself into every project, staying late to perfect presentations, volunteering for tasks no one else wanted. My ideas were innovative, my execution meticulous, but recognition always seemed to elude me.

Once, during a team meeting, I pitched a strategy for a client campaign—an idea I'd spent days refining. My colleagues nodded along, but the conversation quickly shifted to another topic.

A week later, my manager praised Dorian for proposing "a brilliant strategy" during a brainstorming session. My heart sank as I realized he'd presented my idea as his own.

I didn't say anything. What was the point? Dorian's charisma had a way of erasing my contributions, making them invisible even to those who should have noticed.

The most recent dinner with our parents was no different.

The dining table was laden with food, the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation filling the air. I'd been looking forward to sharing some good news—a project I'd spearheaded at work had finally gotten the green light, and I was proud of how far I'd come.

But before I could speak, Dad launched into a glowing monologue.

"Did you hear, Leonard?" he said, turning to me. "Your brother's been accepted into the executive program at Wharton. Can you believe it? That's our Dorian—always reaching for the stars."

"That's wonderful," I said quietly, forcing a smile.

"I know, right?" Dad continued enthusiastically.

As the conversation continued, I tried to chime in, but my voice was drowned out by theirs. By the time dinner ended, I hadn't said a word about my own achievements.

I shrugged, feeling down while I muttered, "Why are you surprised, Leo? It's like this every time."