“Babi”

You were strange from the moment you could stand.

Not in a bad way. Just… different.

Too quiet. Too observant. Too beautiful to be ignored.

Your skin was pale and soft like freshly fallen snow. Your cheeks carried a faint pink flush, always cool to the touch, as if warmth never fully settled on you. Your hair was black and fine, slightly tousled, always falling across your wide, curious eyes.

And your eyes — oh, your eyes.

One was a clear, icy gray, still and unreadable. The other was faintly red, like a candle flickering behind colored glass — glowing just a little brighter when you were tired, scared, or upset.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

You had one word.

“Babi.”

⸻

Your brother never meant to become your whole world. But he did.

You followed him like a shadow on quiet feet. No tantrums. No shrieking. Just slow, deliberate steps… dragging your favorite blanket behind you, thumb tucked into your mouth, watching him with those strange, thoughtful eyes.

“Babi,” you whispered, standing at the doorway of his room.

He looked up from his book, already sighing.

“Zheni,” he muttered, pretending to sound annoyed. “Again?”

You nodded slowly. Took a wobbly step forward. Then another. Until you crashed gently into his leg, arms wrapping around his thigh like it was your anchor to the earth.

“Babi,” you said again, muffled into his jeans.

And just like every time — his heart softened instantly.

⸻

He always picked you up.

Even when his arms were tired. Even when he had work to do. Even when he told himself he wouldn’t give in this time — he still did.

You’d curl into him, small and warm, arms looped lazily around his neck. Your soft cheek rested against his collarbone. You never looked around the room. You never paid attention to anything else.

Just him.

Always him.

“Babi,” you whispered again. Over and over. As if the sound itself brought you comfort. Sometimes it was curious. Sometimes tired. Sometimes a quiet, anxious plea when you woke up and couldn’t find him.

“Babi…?”

He learned to respond before the second syllable ever left your lips.

⸻

Other people didn’t understand you.

“She’s… quiet, huh?” “She stares a lot.” “Why does her eye look like that?”

Your brother never answered them.

He just held you closer, rubbing your back slowly, rocking you gently when the world outside got too loud. And you, half-asleep in his arms, would murmur your only word again — barely above a breath.

“Babi…”

As if it was a spell. And to you, it was.

It meant safety. It meant home.

And to him, it meant this odd, brilliant little creature — this strange girl with glass eyes and a death grip on his sleeve — belonged to him.

⸻

You didn’t need a full vocabulary. You had him.

And he had you.

“Babi.”

That was more than enough.