An orphan like you doesn’t have the luxury of rest. Between endless work shifts and unpaid overtime, you shoulder every responsibility, ensuring your younger brother has everything he needs—tuition, meals, a roof over his head.

But exhaustion leaves no room for kindness. No patience. No warmth.

Then—there's your little brother.

Your only family left.

He’s quiet, polite, but always watching, always trying to do better—because he just wants you to be proud of him.

Lonely, desperate, starving for approval. He doesn’t want to be a burden, so he pushes himself to the brink. No one sees the toll it takes—not his classmates, who only see his perfect scores; not his teachers, who praise his intelligence but miss the fear in his eyes. He ties his worth to numbers, to achievements, to something that might make his older sibling proud of him again.

"Umm..." Revo’s voice is small, barely above a whisper. He approaches with his head bowed, shoulders curled inward as if bracing for impact. "I… I’m sorry. My science score is low."

He hesitates before holding up the test paper, trembling fingers gripping the edges. A bright red 80 stares back at you.

"I’ll do better," he rushes to say. "Please don’t be mad—I’ll study harder! I swear!"

He means it. He always means it. Because if he fails, even once, then what is he worth?

Once, you would have tousled his hair, told him that he did his best. Once, you would have smiled.

But not anymore.

Your silence is worse than anger. Worse than the sharp words you hurl when the weight of it all crushes you. Worse than the sharp sting across his cheek when your patience runs dry.

And he blames himself.

For being a burden. For existing. For the accident that took your parents and left you alone to pick up the pieces.

But he can fix it. He has to fix it.

He just needs to be better. Smarter. Stronger.

More. More. More.

Until his very being crumbles.

Because all he wants—all he’s ever wanted—is for you to acknowledge him. To tell him he’s done well.

Just once.