The silver clink of cutlery echoed faintly in the quiet dining room, accompanied only by the low hum of the antique wall clock. Marin and Kant sat across from each other at the long mahogany table, the polished surface reflecting the golden glow of the chandelier overhead. The food—warm and carefully prepared—sat mostly untouched on Marin's plate.
Kant glanced at her again.
She was unusually quiet. Normally, she'd talk about the day—even if it was just a sarcastic comment about a classmate or something silly she saw in the hallway. But tonight, her lips barely moved, her fork moved in a slow, absent-minded rhythm, pushing her rice in small circles as though it were something fragile.
Kant rested his elbow on the table and studied her for a second longer. "Are you ok?."
Marin blinked, as if startled by his voice. She looked up at him briefly, then gave a faint shrug.
"I'm just not hungry."
He didn't buy it. But he didn't ask further.
She returned her gaze to her plate, her brows slightly furrowed. The room returned to its soft, stiff silence.
In Marin's mind, though, the words of the girls from the locker room echoed like a bad song on repeat.
"She never goes anywhere."
"Too uptight."
"Boring, just like a textbook."
"Isn't she the mayor's daughter? Thought she'd be more… fun."
Each comment had lodged itself into her thoughts like tiny splinters. The words weren't said to her directly—but they were meant for her. And somehow, that made them sting worse. Not because they were cruel. But because maybe… maybe they were true.
She picked up her glass of water and took a small sip, hoping it would clear the lump that had been stuck in her throat since she left there.
Kant glanced at her again. He noticed the way she exhaled through her nose just a little too hard. The way she looked tired, not from the day, but from thinking too much.
"Rough day?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.
Marin hesitated. "It's nothing," she mumbled.
Kant leaned back in his chair. "When someone says it's 'nothing,' it usually means it's something."
Marin sighed, finally putting down her fork. She looked across at him—her big brother, always observant, always just on the edge of knowing too much.
She picked up the fork again and slowly twirled it on the plate —just stirring absentmindedly, as if the silence between them held more weight than the food.
Kant watched her again, more carefully this time. Something still lingered in her eyes—a quiet storm that hadn't passed.
She looked down again when she asked , her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do.... you ever think we're weird?"
He blinked, surprised by the question.
Marin's gaze shifted from the half-eaten dinner to Kant."I mean… not weird like bad weird. Just… different. Like there's something off about how we live. How we're always so reserved. How we barely go out. How we always have to think twice before doing anything."
Kant leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking beneath him. He folded his arms, brows slightly drawn.
Marin continued, her voice soft but clear. "Other teenagers stay out late. They hang out, go to parties, have sleepovers. Their parents don't care much. But us…" She let out a small breath. "It feels like we live in a different world."
Kant didn't answer right away. He looked past her for a moment, to the window behind her—where the sky had dimed into black sheets, quiet and distant.
He finally exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "We're not weird," he said, gently. "And there's nothing wrong with us."
"But what about the way we live?"
Kant looked down, choosing his words carefully.
"I don't think we live wrong," he said. "Just… differently. We grew up with certain rules and expectations. And yeah, sometimes it does feel like we're being watched more than we're being raised."
Marin stayed quiet, her eyes glimmering with thought.
"It's not our fault," Kant added. "It's just… the house, our name, the town—we tend to keep it more together than most people."
Marin swallowed. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
Kant gave a soft chuckle. "Not really. But… maybe it's supposed to help you realize that you're not the problem. The rules are."
Marin sat back slightly, digesting that.
"If Mum was here," she muttered again. "I feel like she would've balanced it out."
Kant nodded slowly, a wistful smile forming. "Yeah."
Marin looked at him again. "Do you think she would've let us live more freely?"
Kant met her gaze. "I think she would've strictly let you live the way you wanted. And that's what matters."
A long pause stretched between them.
Then, Marin whispered, "Right."
Kant reached out and gently nudged her spoon back toward the center of the plate. "Just don't let those girls at school make you think much."
She blinked. "How did you know it's about them?"
"I didn't," he admitted. "Not exactly. But I know that look—you wear it when someone's words hit deeper than they should."
He lowered his gaze to the plate and continued eating.
Marin glanced at Kant, then back at her own, still half full. The silence between them had thinned, softened by Kant's earlier words. But something still lingered behind her eyes—a restless flutter, like a thought too fragile to hold.
She lowered her gaze again and began lightly poking at her vegetables with the edge of her fork. Her fingers trembled just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough for Kant to notice.
"There's a party," she said suddenly, voice quiet but deliberate.
Kant looked up from his plate, surprised but attentive.
Marin still didn't meet his eyes. "The girls from school... are going. It's this Saturday. At Kayla's house. Her parents are out of town, so it's supposed to be this big, jolly, no-curfew kind of thing."
She gave a faint laugh, hollow and nervous. "They asked me if I was coming. I didn't say yes… but I didn't say no either. I just kind of… left them hanging."
She paused, twirling the fork now between her fingers, its prongs clicking lightly against the ceramic edge of her plate. "I didn't want to say I wasn't coming because I didn't want them to think I'm no fun. But I also couldn't say yes, because… well, you know."
Kant didn't respond immediately. He watched her hands—the way she fidgeted with the fork, the way her fingers curled and uncurled against the handle like she was trying to ground herself.
He smiled gently. Then, with the calmness only an elder brother could carry, he said, "Table manners first."
Marin blinked, startled. She looked up at him—and then realized. The noise the fork was making due to her nervous fiddling.
A slight flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks, and she set the fork down quickly with a soft clink. "Sorry."
They both returned to their meals.
Between bites, Marin stole a glance at her brother.
There was something comforting in the way he had gently redirected her. No lecture, No teasing. Just enough firmness to remind her she was safe to speak.