For three years, my brother and I existed in parallel lives
Close enough to remember each other clearly, distant enough to pretend we didn’t matter. Our fallout wasn’t explosive. There were no raised voices, no dramatic ultimatums. Just a conversation that went wrong, words that landed too hard, and a silence that slowly hardened into distance. Pride did the rest. I convinced myself that cutting him out was self-respect, that blood ties didn’t excuse pain. And over time, the absence stopped feeling strange. Or so I told myself.
Life adjusted around the gap he left. Birthdays came and went without messages. Holidays grew quieter, trimmed down to what felt manageable. I built routines that didn’t include him and called it peace. Whenever his name surfaced in my thoughts, I brushed it away, reminding myself that reaching out would only reopen something already closed. The story I told myself was neat, contained, and mostly unchallenged.
Until one winter night unraveled it.
My car gave out without warning, coughing once before going completely still. The irony didn’t hit me immediately—only the cold did. Then I looked up and realized exactly where I was. His building. Snow gathered along the sidewalk, streetlights blinking like they couldn’t decide whether to stay on. I sat there gripping the wheel, stunned, as if the city itself had nudged me into a corner I’d spent years avoiding.
I grabbed my phone to call roadside assistance. That was the sensible choice. But as I scrolled, my finger paused over a name I had never removed. I stared at it longer than I meant to. Every excuse rose up at once. Don’t bother him. Don’t reopen things. Handle it yourself.
I ignored them and called.
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