The night was quiet except for the hum of the city outside our window. I sat on the floor, leaning against the couch, staring at the faint glow of the cigarette between my brother’s fingers. Smoke curled lazily around his face, half-hidden beneath strands of his dark hair. He looked untouchable—like the idol everyone in the world wanted, but no one truly knew. To me, though, he wasn’t the flawless star they screamed for on stage. He was just my brother—the only family I had left since Mom and Dad were gone. He glanced at me, his expression softening in a way he never showed anyone else. Without saying a word, he passed me the cigarette. “You shouldn’t pick this up,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no scolding in it. Just the weight of someone who’d lived too fast, too hard, and didn’t know how to stop. I took it anyway. Not because I liked it, but because it was something we shared—something that tethered us together in this fractured world. We sat in silence, the smoke filling the room, the unspoken understanding between us stronger than any words. On stage, he belonged to millions. But here, in this small apartment with the shadows of our parents’ absence hanging heavy, he was mine. My brother. My anchor. My only home.