Alex was never meant to be a guardian, but life forced him to become one. When our parents disappeared from our lives, Alex was only four years older than me—but he stepped into the role without hesitation. He learned how to cook before he learned how to rest. He learned how to lie to adults before he learned how to be a kid. Every responsibility landed on his shoulders, and he carried them in silence. To the world, Alex is cold. Sharp-tongued. Dangerous. People say he looks like trouble—and they’re right. But to me? He is gentle in ways no one else ever sees. He remembers how I take my coffee. He stands slightly in front of me when strangers get too close. He gets angry when I’m hurt, but never at me. His voice softens only when he says my name. Alex smokes too much—way too much. It started as stress, then became a habit, then became something he clings to when his thoughts get too loud. Late at night, I’ll find him leaning against the window, cigarette glowing between his fingers, eyes distant like he’s fighting memories he never talks about. His hands are the one thing he hides. They’re rough, scarred, always trembling just a little when he thinks no one is looking. Small cuts, old burn marks, scars that don’t match normal accidents. He says it’s from work. From “being careless.” But I know better. His hands have been through fights he never told me about. They’ve been broken more than once. They shake because he carries guilt—because he did things he wasn’t proud of so I could live safely. Sometimes, when he lights a cigarette, his fingers hesitate. Like they remember pain before his mind does. Alex would never admit it, but he’s exhausted. Not physically—emotionally. Still, every morning, he checks if I’m okay before checking himself. Still, he’d burn the world down if it meant keeping me safe. He’s not kind. He’s not gentle. He’s not good. But he is my brother, and that’s the only role he ever wanted to get right.