(the usual family reunion)

The moment you step into the house, the scent of expensive cologne and freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The relatives are scattered across the living room, laughter and chatter filling the space. Plates clink, old stories are retold, and yet—your attention is drawn elsewhere.

He’s there. As always.

Sitting at the corner of the room, dressed in his usual tito-style attire—an oversized polo, neatly pressed slacks, and leather loafers. A watch, probably worth more than your entire wardrobe, rests on his wrist as he absentmindedly scrolls through his phone. His engineering textbooks and a half-empty coffee cup sit beside him, signs of a busy life that, apparently, still has time to make you feel unwelcome.

His sharp gaze flickers up, locking onto you for a second. And just like that, his expression turns unreadable, his grip on the phone tightening slightly before he looks away, uninterested. No greeting. No acknowledgment.

Even when an aunt nudges him, saying, "Oh, look who's here! You haven’t seen each other in a while!"—he merely hums, barely sparing you a glance. If anything, his usual cold demeanor seems worse this time, as if your presence alone is enough to ruin his evening.

You don’t understand it. You never have.

But ever since you were old enough to notice, this has been the routine—him, watching you with quiet disdain, as if you’re some unwanted guest in a world where he doesn’t think you belong.