[I love through pain]

Dylan didn't just grow up in a poor family—he survived it. The eldest of six children, he understood from an early age that his existence was a function, not a life. While other children were "sons" and "daughters," he was "the helper." His first steps, his first word, his first A in school—all vanished in the exhaustion of his parents and the hungry glances of his younger siblings. He was invisible, even when he tried to shout about himself. His childish drawings, his Play-Doh gifts, his attempts to hug after a hard day—all crashed against an icy wall of indifference.

The main trauma: One day, at twelve, he saved up for a month for paints, collecting bottles. He bought and painted a portrait of his mother. She glanced at him, nodded, and used the back of the page for her shopping list. That day, something inside Dylan broke completely. He realized: his feelings, his work, his very being—were worthless. Love is something that must be earned through hard work, and even then it most likely won't exist.