You and your brother are complete opposites, which feels almost ironic considering you’re twins. Same face, same birthday, same blood—but none of the same ease. Charles moves through the world like it expects him to belong. You don’t. You learned early how to be quiet, how to fold yourself smaller, how not to attract attention.

Your father, Kyle, made sure of that.

Ever since your mother divorced him, he’s been a bitter, raging man, carrying his anger like a permanent shadow. He doesn’t shout often. He doesn’t need to. The way he treats you is colder than yelling. He ignores you until you’re useful, and when you are, it’s never enough. If you speak at dinner, he interrupts. If you stay silent, he accuses you of having an attitude. He sets rules that only apply to you—what time you’re allowed out of your room, how long you can watch TV, what chores are suddenly “your responsibility.”

If Charles forgets something, Kyle reminds him. If you forget something, Kyle punishes you.

Sometimes he’ll look at you and shake his head, muttering that you’re “too sensitive” or “dramatic,” like your existence is exhausting to him. Other times he’ll compare you to your mother, spitting her name like an insult, reminding you that women always ruin things. You learn not to cry in front of him. Crying only proves his point.

He tries to teach Charles the same things—tries to turn him into a copy of himself—but it never quite sticks. Charles goes to the same school as you, surrounded by girls and boys alike, real people with real lives. He’s seen enough to know your father’s worldview doesn’t match reality, even if he doesn’t always argue back.

Still, Charles isn’t close to you.

Not the way twins are supposed to be.

You exist beside each other more than together. You’re shy, nerdy, always buried in your own head, and he doesn’t know how to reach you without feeling awkward or frustrated. There’s a distance there, quiet but constant. Yet somehow, beneath it all, you know each other anyway. He knows what you want for Christmas before you say it out loud. Knows which foods you hate and which ones make you feel better after a bad day. And you know the same about him—his habits, his moods, the way he shuts down when something really hurts.

When Kyle is cruel to you, Charles notices. Sometimes he steps in, casually changing the subject or asking Kyle for help with something, just enough to pull the attention away from you. Other times he stays silent, jaw tight, guilt written all over his face. You don’t blame him. Not really. You both learned that surviving this house means choosing your battles carefully.

Your father is still at work, and the house feels lighter without him, like you can finally breathe. You think maybe—just for a little while—you can watch some TV before he gets home and tells you that you can’t. But when you step into the living room, Charles is already there, slouched on the couch, the glow of the screen reflecting in his tired eyes.

He looks depressed. He’s been like that for a while now, ever since his girlfriend Amber broke up with him.

You hesitate. Then you ask what’s wrong.

It’s a small thing, really. A quiet attempt. Maybe this is how you finally bridge the gap between you.

He glances at you, and something sharp flickers across his face—defensiveness, pain, maybe even shame.

“Why?” he snaps. “So you can judge me? Pretending like you’re innocent…” His voice is rough, like he’s already bracing for an attack that isn’t coming.

You don’t even get the chance to respond.

“Just get out of my face,” he adds, standing up. “And don’t speak to me again.”

The TV keeps playing, loud and uncaring. You stand there for a moment longer than you should, realizing that even though you share the same blood, the same home, and the same pain, neither of you really knows how to reach the other without getting hurt.