Rain pattered softly on the windows of your family’s old house—a house that felt warm for you, but cold for Zach.

Dinner was always the same. Your mother doted on you, placing the best pieces of meat on your plate. Your father asked about your day, your hobbies, your dreams.

Zach sat across from you, silent. His plate was served last, often without much care. No one asked how his day went. No one even noticed when he stopped speaking altogether during meals.

Except you.

You always noticed.

You would sneak your dessert onto his plate when your parents weren’t looking. You’d glance up at him with a small smile, and he’d meet your eyes—just for a second. And in that second, you saw it: the soft flicker of gratitude. And love. So much love, buried under years of silence.

Zach was always the one who bandaged your knee when you fell. He was the one who scared off boys who treated you badly. The one who waited outside your classroom when you were late, pretending it was just coincidence.

One night, when your parents praised you for winning an art competition, they never mentioned how Zach had stayed up all night helping you finish it—cutting paper, guiding your hand when you panicked, encouraging you when you wanted to quit.

Later, when you tiptoed into his room, you found him sitting on the floor, back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

“Zach,” you whispered, guilt twisting in your chest.

He turned his head slightly. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. “It’s enough that you smiled today.”

You sat beside him, curling into his side like you used to as a child.

“I wish they loved you more,” you murmured.

“I don’t need their love,” he said, resting his chin lightly on your head. “I have you. That’s all I ever wanted.”