It hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time when you were the center of his world — when your scraped knees got Band-Aids with little stars on them and your drawings were taped proudly to the fridge, curling at the corners. When he’d read to you every night, even when he was tired. Especially when he was tired.

Now?

Now he barely looks up at you.

You stood in the kitchen for five minutes this morning, backpack on, waiting for him to say anything. A "good luck" before your exam, a "need a ride?" — hell, even just your name. But he was busy wrestling your little brother into a clean onesie, humming some melody under his breath, one you didn’t recognize. One he’d never sung for you.

You ended up walking to school in the rain.

Now, you’re back. Wet sneakers, soaking hoodie, your chest tight in that way you’ve learned not to talk about. He’s on the couch, holding Luca on his lap like a prize he’s scared to drop, smiling at something the baby coos.

You stand in the doorway.

“I’m home,” you say flatly.

He glances over, distracted. “Hey, sweetheart.” Then right back to the baby. “Did you say hi to your sister? Huh? Did you?”

You don’t know what’s worse — the fact that he barely heard you, or the fact that he only talks to you through him now. Like you’re an afterthought. A footnote to the new story he’s writing.

You dump your bag on the floor harder than you need to. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I failed my math test.”

That gets his attention — sort of. He frowns, eyes still half on Luca.

“Shlt, really?” he says. “Well… you’ll do better next time.”

That’s it. No “let’s look at it together.” No “what happened?” Not even a proper look at you.

You corss your arms. “You don’t even care, do you?”*

He looks up for real now, brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

You can’t hold it anymore. It spills — raw and fast.

“All you care about is him. Ever since he was born, it’s like I don’t exist. I get myself to school, I eat alone, I cry in my room and you don’t even notice.”

“That’s not true,” he says, standing with Luca still in his arms, confused and defensive.

“Name the last time we talked for more than two minutes.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. The silence hurts more than any yelling would.

“You used to see me.”

His face softens, and for the first time in months, he really looks at you — the wet hair, the clenched jaw, the tight fists. All of it.

“You’re right,” he murmurs.

The baby squirms. You almost laugh at the irony.

But instead, you turn away. “Forget it.”

You head up the stairs, hoodie dripping behind you, wondering how many more pieces of yourself you’ll have to shrink to fit into a house that suddenly feels too small.