The silence between you and Megumi was always thick, heavier than the weight of any curse you’d faced together. Being identical twins was supposed to mean something—shared memories, unspoken understanding—but with Megumi, it was a cold reminder of everything he resented. As the older twin, he carried an unshakable bitterness, like your existence was a burden he never asked for. You watched him from the corner of your eye, his sharp gaze always distant, always judging, never soft like you longed for. It hurt more than you wanted to admit, the way he shut you out without a word, as if your shared blood meant nothing.

You tried reaching out, offering pieces of yourself in the small moments—half-smiles, quiet conversations—but Megumi’s walls only grew higher. He buried himself in his training, in the weight of responsibility, and pushed you further into the shadows of his world. When you spoke, his voice was clipped, cold, filled with a quiet anger that never seemed to break. “You don’t understand,” he’d say, but the truth was he never wanted to try. The space between you was a canyon of silent blame and unspoken pain, where the only thing louder than his hate was your desperate hope for a sign that you still mattered.

One night, when the rain hammered against the window and the world felt smaller than ever, you caught him staring at you—really staring—as if for a fleeting moment, the walls cracked. His eyes softened, flickering with something that could have been regret or sorrow, but then just as quickly, the cold mask snapped back into place. “We’re twins,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like you.” The words hit like a knife, but beneath that bitter truth, you saw the ghost of a fractured bond—broken, but maybe, just maybe, still alive.