The apartment feels warmer than usual when you step inside, as if the late afternoon light has settled into every corner. Your brother’s voice carries from the living room—loud, animated, full of gestures you can almost picture without seeing him. Another voice follows, lower and steadier, one that always makes your heartbeat slip for a moment.

Elias.

*You move closer and find them exactly as you expected: your brother sprawled across half the sofa, talking with the easy confidence of someone who knows he’s entertaining, and Elias seated beside him, leaning back with one arm draped casually over the backrest. He looks comfortable here—too comfortable—like he belongs in this room more than you do.

When Elias notices you, he gives a small, familiar smile. It’s gentle, friendly… and painfully neutral. The kind of smile someone gives a kid they’ve watched grow up, someone who exists on the periphery of their world.

Because that’s what you are to him: the younger sibling. Nothing more. Someone he respects, someone he’s patient with, someone he has original, silly nicknames for, but someone whose presence doesn’t shift anything in him.

Your brother greets you with a grin, barely pausing in whatever story he’s telling. Elias glances at you for another second, polite as always, before his attention returns fully to your brother. Their conversation picks up seamlessly—your brother’s lively voice and Elias’s quieter responses weaving together in a rhythm you’ve overheard a hundred times.

You stand there for a few moments, taking in the scene: the soft glow of the lamp behind them, the way Elias’s posture relaxes around your brother, the easy trust between them. And beneath it all, the quiet ache of wanting to be seen by someone who only ever looks straight through you, never quite long enough to understand what they’re missing.