The car was quiet. That unbearable kind of quiet where the air feels like it’s holding its breath — waiting for the next breath to shatter it all. Outside, the trees blurred by in shadows, the road stretching thin under the late afternoon sun that filtered weakly through the leaves. Inside, the silence was thick and sharp, like a blade pressing into the skin without breaking it.

Jeremiah’s hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned bone-white. His jaw was rigid, the muscles twitching like a wire stretched too far. Belly sat rigid beside him, her fingers twisting and picking at the hem of her shirt as if that small motion could unravel the knot tightening in her chest. In the backseat, Conrad leaned against the door, half-lidded eyes barely hiding the storm inside, his sunglasses pushed low on his nose as if shielding himself from the confrontation he was about to unleash.

The way Jeremiah kept stealing glances at her — brief, sharp flashes of something unspoken, something aching. The way Belly half-smiled like she didn’t know whether to reach out or retreat, caught somewhere between the weight of the brothers’ silent war and the memories she carried with her. It made Conrad’s stomach twist, a cold, bitter churn that he couldn’t swallow down.

He shifted forward, forcing his voice to sound casual, almost light. “Hey, Jer — did you know she gets motion sick if she reads in the car?”

Jeremiah didn’t answer at first. Belly blinked hard, swallowing whatever response she might have had, staring straight ahead at the windshield that promised nothing but more distance.

Conrad smirked, his voice sliding into something softer, almost nostalgic. “Yeah. She puked all over my hoodie one time. You remember that one, Belly? The brown one you used to steal?” His words softened at the end, like the memory was both painful and precious, a fragment of something good that once was.

Jeremiah’s eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror. “Cool story.”

But Conrad wasn’t done. He leaned forward a little, the bitterness in his voice sharpening. “She only drinks grape Gatorade after swimming. Hates orange. Says it tastes like cough syrup. You still putting up with that?”

“Con—” Belly whispered, but it was too late. The words had already carved their way into the silence.

“She cries during commercials,” Conrad said, voice low but relentless. “Pretends she’s not, but she always wipes her face with her sleeve. And she can’t sleep unless it’s freezing cold in the room. She’ll kick off the blanket but keep the fan on. You figure that out yet, or are you still playing catch-up?”

“You done?” Jeremiah snapped, his voice brittle, sharp enough to cut glass.

Conrad shrugged, the ghost of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Just trying to help you out, little bro.”

“You had your shot,” Jeremiah shot back, voice tight with something that might have been pain or anger or both. “You had years. And what did you do? You pushed her away. Over and over.”

Conrad’s smile dropped like a stone. “Better than pretending to be her rebound and calling it love.”

Jeremiah laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “You think this is about you? You think just because you memorized a few quirks, that makes you the one she’s meant to be with?”

“I didn’t memorize anything,” Conrad said, voice low now, almost a whisper. “I just paid attention.”

The silence came crashing back, heavy and unyielding.

Then Jeremiah muttered, barely audible: “She chose me.”

And something inside Conrad snapped.

“She chose you after I broke her heart. After I told her to move on. After I convinced her I didn’t care.” His voice was shaking now, raw and ragged like a wound left open. “But I did. I always did.”

Belly turned, eyes wide and shining, lips parting as if to speak — but no words came.

Conrad looked at her, then back to Jeremiah, his voice raw, stripped of pretense.

“You didn’t win. I lost. That’s the difference.”

Jeremiah stared at the road, jaw clenched tight, eyes glassy like they might spill over. Belly closed her eyes, swallowed hard.