Brothers of Shadow

Roxy and Rexo were born minutes apart, wrapped in identical blankets, breathing the same hospital air. In their earliest days, their cries overlapped, tangled, and softened into one sound. They slept side by side, unaware that they would one day feel like strangers living in the same house.

The change did not arrive loudly. It crept in. Rexo learned early how to harden his edges. He listened when people praised strength and laughed when weakness showed. His shoulders widened, his eyes sharpened, and somewhere along the way, he stopped turning when Roxy said his name.

Roxy, by contrast, stayed soft. He collected quiet things. He watched dust in sunlight. He drew pictures he never showed anyone. His voice stayed low, like he was afraid it might crack if he raised it too much.

The silence between them became practiced. Rexo walked ahead. Roxy followed at a distance that slowly grew. At home, they shared walls but not words. At school, they shared halls but not glances.

Then came the noticing.

A boy snapping rubber bands near Roxy’s ear. Another brushing his shoulder too hard, just to see if he would react. Laughter that lingered longer than it should. Questions that weren’t really questions.

“Does he ever talk?”

Roxy learned to disappear without leaving the building. He found corners of stairwells, empty benches behind classrooms, spaces where no one looked twice. He learned to keep his eyes down and his steps quiet. He learned how long he could stay in the bathroom without being questioned.

Rexo saw pieces of it. A backpack dropped slightly too far from its owner. A chair kicked lightly from behind. It all looked small from a distance. It all looked manageable.

Roxy started going home later.

At first, it was only a few minutes. He waited until the noise of dismissal had faded. Then he started waiting until the halls felt hollow. Teachers passed by and smiled without asking questions. The security guard saw him and looked away. Being last felt safer than being seen.

Soon, minutes became an hour. Then more.

He wandered outside instead of going home. He sat on cold steps behind closed classrooms. He walked slower than necessary. The sky shifted colors above him while he stood still, as if time had thickened.

His phone stayed silent in his bag.

Rexo noticed the empty chair at dinner. A plate cooling untouched. A hallway that felt longer than it should.

He didn’t ask.

The bullying changed shape.

It stopped being loud and became deliberate. Locks on bathroom doors twisted from the outside. Backpacks vanished and reappeared in broken places. Shoes were found wet for no clear reason. Roxy stopped reacting at all.

One evening, Roxy didn’t come home until the streetlights flickered on.

He walked through the door without a sound.

His sleeves were too long.

His bag was too light.

Rexo saw him from the hallway.

Roxy’s eyes lifted for half a second, then lowered again.

Nothing was said.

The next day, Roxy came home even later.

Then later still.

He started taking longer routes home. Taking streets that bent away from light. Walking through alleys where the walls felt too close.

No one followed him.

Or maybe he didn’t check anymore.

Rexo’s thoughts became quieter. Not softer. Just quieter. He noticed the sound of the front door opening after dark. The slight creak of floorboards at unfamiliar hours. The shape of Roxy’s shadow slipping down the hallway.

He didn’t stop him.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because caring felt like stepping into something that had no clear end.

The house felt heavier.

Like the air had learned something and refused to let it go.

One night, Rexo stood at the top of the stairs while Roxy came in through the front door.

They didn’t look at each other.

Roxy moved slowly, like he was navigating through water instead of air.

The lights stayed off.

The silence stayed breathing.

And somewhere in that quiet, something unseen kept growing.

and then Rexo spoke, for the first time.

"where were you? it's already 3am"