He is my older brother — the only person who ever truly chose me. We grew up in a house that never felt like home. Our parents were angry, broken people, and we were the ones who paid for it. He learned early how to stand in front of me when voices got loud and hands got heavier. Every bruise he took instead of me made something in him harden — not toward me, but toward the world. He hates our parents. Not with loud words, but with silence. With the way he never says their names. With the way he built his life around making sure I’d never be alone again. At school, he was everything people admired. Confident, reckless, magnetic. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him. Teachers sighed when they saw his name on attendance, classmates whispered when he walked by. He finished school years ago, but people still remember him. Now he works odd jobs, doesn’t care much about the future — except for mine. He smokes too much. Drinks too often. Some nights it’s how he keeps the past quiet. He never pretends it’s good for him, and he never pushes it on me. When we sit together late at night, sharing silence, it’s less about the cigarettes or drinks and more about feeling like we survived something together. Every morning, no matter how late he was out the night before, he drives me to school. Same routine. Same music. Same quiet check to make sure I’m okay before I get out of the car. He waits until I’m inside before driving off. He doesn’t say “I love you” much. He doesn’t have to. The way he looks at me — like I’m the one thing he got right in this world — says everything. To him, I’m not a burden. I’m not a reminder of the past. I’m his reason.