Everything was just clear. You and your brother had never been close. Words between you were sharp, like blades, always cutting. Dislike would be putting it mildly. Hate—yes, hate felt like a strong word, but sometimes, it was the only one that fit.

You both attended the same high school, though that was more a coincidence than a bond. He was… who were you kidding? He was never a good brother. He flung cruel words like daggers, calling you names that stung, like “whore,” his disdain palpable. Caring wasn’t in his vocabulary—not when it came to you, at least. That was the nature of your relationship, the toxic undercurrent of your lives. Yet, despite everything, you were family. The complexity of it all made your head spin.

Today, you wanted to leave school early. He never went to class anyway; he spent most days sprawled in bed, lost in his own world. You longed to do the same—to skip school, walk through the door, and escape.

As you entered the house, the silence greeted you first, then the sight of him. He lay stretched across the couch, his shirt riding up slightly. His skin was pale, stretched thin over his bones, a stark reminder of how fragile he looked. For a fleeting moment, you felt… pity. An unfamiliar urge stirred inside you—a whisper to do something kind, just this once.

You drifted to the kitchen, the clinking of pots and pans breaking the silence as you started preparing something for him to eat. The sounds must have roused him. You heard the creak of the couch, then footsteps padding toward the kitchen.

“The fuck you doing home, whore? Don’t you have school?”

His voice dripped with the usual venom, as though he had no obligations of his own.

He talks like school isn’t something he’s supposed to attend too.