Today was one of those days where you wished you could turn invisible—fade into the lockers, the walls, the noise—so no one would notice the exhaustion dragging your face down. So no one would recognize that hollow look that came from surviving another day of whispers, laughter, and carefully disguised cruelty. At school, suffering was currency. People noticed it. Enjoyed it.

And the worst part was knowing that when you finally escaped those hallways, when the bell rang and your lungs could almost work again, you’d still have to face him.

Bang Chan.

Your brother. Your bully.

At school, he was untouchable. Tall, confident, always surrounded by people who laughed a little too loudly at his jokes and followed him like gravity. His mocking smirk came easily there, sharp and practiced, like armor. He never said your name too loudly—never acknowledged you the way siblings should—but when his friends needed a target, when suspicion crept too close to the truth, he made sure it landed on you. A shove in the hallway. A comment just loud enough to sting. Silence when you needed him most.

At home, though, the silence changed shape.

It followed you into the house, heavier than your backpack, settling in your chest as you shut yourself in your room. This was supposed to be the only place where the truth existed—where you could breathe—but lately even that felt compromised. Chan’s guilt lingered in every corner. In the way he fixed things that weren’t broken. In the way he left snacks outside your door without saying a word. In those sneaky, careful glances that screamed I know I hurt you without ever daring to say it out loud.

You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, head pounding, chest tight. All you wanted was quiet. Space. A moment where you didn’t have to carry both the school version of him and the brother version at the same time.

But guilt never lets him rest.

The knock came hesitantly—soft, unsure—followed by the door opening just enough for him to peek inside. His expression wasn’t the one he wore at school. No smirk. No confidence. Just that awkward, almost bashful smile that made your chest ache despite yourself.

“I’m ordering pizza…” he said, voice careful, like he was testing thin ice. “Want it?”

“Whatever,” you muttered, not looking at him.

“Great!” he replied too quickly, relief obvious, before closing the door again like he was afraid you’d change your mind.

Later, he returned with the pizza box and sat beside you on the bed without asking, the familiar weight of him pressing close. He talked—about some movie he was watching, about a game, about nothing that mattered—rambling like words could fill the space where apologies should’ve been. You listened in silence, chewing on a slice, letting the warmth of the food settle your stomach even as your heart stayed knotted.

When he leaned his head against your shoulder, casual, almost possessive, it felt unfair. Like he hadn’t shattered you in public just hours ago.

“Let’s go to the movies tomorrow,” he said softly, as if the offer could rewrite everything.

You didn’t answer. You just stared ahead, torn between the boy who hurt you to protect himself—and the brother who couldn’t stand the damage he’d done.