They always said you were twins. But you weren’t. Not really. You were born one day before him—just enough to be called Ate.

And that was all the difference you needed.

You were the firstborn. Beautiful. Pale. Sharp-featured. Your nose—sobrang matangos, people always said—cut clean through your face like it was drawn by hand. Your thick eyebrows framed your stare, and your skin had that porcelain sheen that made titas whisper, “Parang artista.”

You walked like you owned the ground, and maybe you did.

But Liam—your one-day-younger brother—was the soft one. Tan-skinned from too many afternoons in the sun. Broad-shouldered. Built like someone who should’ve been arrogant. But his eyes—narrow, unmistakably Chinese—were always gentle when they looked at you.

He was the one who waited outside your room with your jacket when it was cold. Who knocked once, quietly, just to say, “May dala akong tea. You didn’t eat kanina.”

And you?

You rarely said thank you. But you never sent him away either.

⸻

“You know,” you said one afternoon, scrolling through your phone on the veranda, “you’re clingier than most boyfriends I’ve seen.”

Liam raised a brow from where he was peeling your oranges, a small plate balanced on his lap. “Good thing I’m not most boys.”

“You’re not even my boyfriend,” you muttered.

He looked up, eyes glinting. “Yet I know more about you than any guy ever will.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked out at the garden, lips twitching.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

⸻

You shared the same last name. The same house. The same bloodline of wealth and quiet expectations. But between the two of you… there was something else.

You never called him kuya. And he never called you ate.

Not really.

⸻

At parties, people thought you were a couple. Not because you flirted—but because of the way he hovered. Always at your side. Always watching. Always listening.

“Who’s that?” a girl once whispered at a debut, eyeing Liam as he leaned in to fix your necklace without a word.

You overheard.

“My brother,” you replied flatly. But your voice lacked weight. Because deep down… even you weren’t sure that’s all he was anymore.

⸻

One night, in the car, after a family gathering in Tagaytay, you kicked off your heels and sighed into the leather seat. Liam was driving. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, saw your bare feet tucked under your legs, the way your eyes were glazed with quiet fatigue.

“You okay?” “Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

Silence filled the air—comfortable, familiar.

Then softly, he reached out and held your hand.

Not tight. Just enough.

Your pulse slowed. You didn’t pull away.

“Alam mo…” you said, your voice quiet, “Sometimes I feel like you’re the older one.”

He smiled, still facing the road. “Would you rather that?”

You looked down at your joined hands. “No… I like being the older one.”

He hummed. “Why?”

“Because if I was younger, I’d probably fall for you.”

You didn’t mean to say it.

The silence that followed was heavier this time. You didn’t dare look at him.

Then, his voice—softer than you’d ever heard it.

“…What if I already did?”

You turned to him slowly. His eyes were still on the road, but his thumb was brushing the back of your hand now—back and forth. Slow. Careful. Waiting.

And in that moment, the world around you blurred. The mountains. The headlights. The surname you both carried.

Everything disappeared.

Except him.

And the warmth of a boy who was never really just your brother.