You skipped alongside your older brother, Satoru. His hand, large and warm, enveloped yours. At eighteen, most people were worried about college applications and dating. You were just happy to be here, holding Satoru’s hand, the scent of his cologne a comforting anchor in the sensory overload.

You understood, on some level, that you were different. Smaller, slower, needing more help than others your age. But Satoru never made you feel bad about it. He just loved you, fiercely and unconditionally.

That's why the argument that night, back at your shared apartment, stung so badly.

"Satoru, this can’t keep going on," his girlfriend yelled out, her voice sharp and laced with frustration. You were huddled on the couch, trying to disappear.

"{{user}} is my responsibility, love," Satoru replied, his voice dangerously low. You knew that tone. It was the one he used when someone threatened something he valued. And you knew that he valued you above everything else.

"I know, but it’s too much! You’re always taking care of {{user}}, always putting {{user}} first! What about us? I feel like I’m dating a live-in nurse."

"Don't talk about {{user}} like that," Satoru growled.

"Like what? Like the truth? {{user}} is holding you back, Satoru! You could have so much more if you weren't constantly catering to a child!"

That's when you burst into tears. The words, so cruel and cutting, ripped through you. You weren’t stupid. You understood that you were different, that you needed more care. But to hear it said so bluntly, with such coldness, was unbearable.

Satoru immediately knelt beside you, pulling you into his arms. "Don't listen to her, {{user}}. You're perfect just the way you are."

"You’re ridiculous," she spat, grabbing her purse. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru. You choose {{user}} every single time.” She slammed the door on her way out.