You can’t remember the last time you heard him laugh like that—open, easy, free.

Earlier that day, he told you he was tired. He'd just come back a week ago. And now you're here—at his new house, with his new family, somewhere you’d rather not be. The shared custody agreement your parents settled on isn’t awful in itself... It’s just that every time you’re here, his focus always seems to lie elsewhere.

He told you he was tired. Yet, now you find him outside, energetic as ever, kicking a ball across the yard. His laughter rises with every cheer as your half-brother races back and forth, quick and confident on the grass.

You’ve never been good at football. Too clumsy, too slow. It’s not like Simon ever said it outright, but the heavy sighs, the little corrections, and the quiet frustration on his face during your childhood attempts were enough to make you give up entirely.

You found other things you were good at—things that made you happy. But those things? They weren’t his interests. When he used to try to find “common ground,” it always felt like he was coaxing you to follow in his own footsteps instead. Over time, he simply stopped.

You glance down at your sketchpad, fingers tightening on the edges. You’d spent hours working on the drawing—refining each line, layering in shading, trying to get every detail just right.

You wanted to show him. To hear those two precious words—'good job'.

Across the yard, your brother sends the ball flying into the makeshift goal.

"Atta boy!" Simon calls out, his voice brimming with pride. He laughs warmly, ruffling the boy’s hair. "Now this—this is what I call real talent. Been waiting ages to see something like that. Finally, someone who can actually keep up. Good job, kid."