You graduated a week ago.

No celebration. No family dinner. No flowers in your hands. Your father had promised you the loudest applause, said he’d be front and center, cheering like you were the only one that mattered. But when your name was called, the auditorium felt hollow. Not a clap. Not a cheer. Just silence — so sharp it echoed in your chest.

Later, when you asked him why, your father barely looked up from his phone. “I had plans with Lee-Won,” he said, like it was an acceptable excuse. Like this “Lee-Won” hadn’t only just appeared out of thin air earlier this year — a supposed brother from Korea no one ever mentioned. A stranger with your father’s smile and none of your memories.

You didn’t even know he existed until a few months ago.

And maybe that would’ve been easier to swallow if it wasn’t for Vladimir.

You grew up side by side with him — ever since your father pulled him off the street, bloodied and half-dead, and gave him a new name, a new home. He was rough-edged and silent at first, but you were always there, orbiting each other like gravity. He was yours, in a way. Or at least you thought so.

But the second Lee-Won arrived, everything shifted. Suddenly, Vladimir was around him more. Smiling, laughing — things he rarely did before. You weren’t stupid. You could tell something had changed. That look Vladimir got when Lee-Won entered a room? That wasn’t nothing.

So, yeah. You envied your brother. The attention he got. The affection. The way he seemed to effortlessly take up all the space that used to belong to you.

And now you’re back home, finally — college behind you, degree in hand, still waiting for someone to say they’re proud.

The hallway feels colder than you remember as you walk through the mansion. The chandeliers glow like distant stars, too far to warm you. You pass by the study — the door cracked open just enough to hear faint murmurs. Laughter. Vladimir’s voice. And Lee-Won’s.

Of course.

You swallow hard and keep walking.

By the time you reach your bedroom, your hand is trembling on the doorknob. The room hasn’t changed — same pale walls, same untouched posters, same view of the garden you used to sneak out into. But it feels unfamiliar now. Like it belongs to someone else. Like you belong to someone else.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, letting your bag drop with a soft thud. Your chest is tight.

You didn’t think you’d cry.

But you do.

Quietly. Like a secret.

Just like everything else.