Part 1 – Echoes of Us
I used to think New York was loud because of the traffic.
Now I know it's loud because it never gives you time to hear yourself think.
I'm twenty-five, living in a narrow apartment on the Upper East Side. The air smells like roasted peanuts and exhaust fumes. It's the kind of place people come to reinvent themselves, and maybe that's what I thought I was doing when I moved here three years ago starting over after college, after home, after everything.
My little brother, Eli, followed a year later. He was twenty-one then, a blur of sketches, music, and questions I never wanted to answer. I loved him God, I loved him but I didn't always understand him.
Eli was the kind of person who turned sidewalks into stages. He'd dance with his headphones in, smiling at strangers. Sometimes, people would stare; sometimes, they'd smile back. I'd walk beside him, pretending not to notice. It's funny how you can love someone and still wish they'd blend in.
When he first told me he was gay, it was a Tuesday night. We were sitting on my couch, sharing leftover pizza and watching a sitcom. He didn't even look nervous.
"Cal," he said, "there's something I should tell you."
And I laughed, because that's what brothers do when they sense drama. "You're not pregnant, are you?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm serious."
I remember the way the TV light flickered across his face, the warmth in his eyes, the way he looked relieved even before I answered. But I didn't answer. I just blinked and said, "You're sure about that?"
I wasn't cruel at least, I told myself I wasn't. I was careful. I asked questions that sounded like concern but tasted like doubt. "How do you know?" "Maybe you just haven't met the right girl." "You're young."
He smiled through it all, like he was used to it. That smile still haunts me.
Over the next few months, we grew distant. I buried myself in work at the marketing firm. Eli spent more time in cafés and art galleries. Sometimes he'd bring home friends who laughed too loud, wore nail polish, or called him darling. I'd nod politely, wait until they left, then say, "You need to be careful. People talk."
He'd shrug. "Let them."
The more I tried to protect him, the more I realized I was protecting my own idea of him, not the real Eli.
One evening, we ended up on the rooftop of our building. The sun was sliding down between skyscrapers, painting the city gold. Eli leaned against the railing, hair fluttering in the wind, and said quietly, "You used to draw with me. Remember?"
I nodded. "That was years ago."
"You stopped because Dad said it was a waste of time."
"Dad was practical."
"Dad was afraid," he said, not looking at me. "And you're just like him."
The words hit harder than I expected. For a second, I wanted to deny it. But he wasn't wrong. I had spent years trying to be what Dad wanted a man who worked hard, paid rent on time, wore a suit, never cried.
Eli turned toward me, eyes bright. "You don't have to save me, Cal. Just see me."
But I didn't know how to.
That night, I lay awake listening to the city hum through the window, wondering how love could feel so heavy.
Weeks passed. We texted less. His social media filled with art exhibitions, friends I'd never met, smiles that looked practiced. I told myself he was fine. I told myself brothers sometimes grow apart.
Then came the morning he didn't answer his phone.
(End of Part 1)