Theo Frost — POV
There's only so much patience a kid can have. And I was never the patient type.
I tried with Jace—really, I did.
For days after he arrived, I circled him like some desperate sun hoping he'd orbit back.
But all I got was that same blank expression, the same silent staring, the same unreadable calm that made me feel… stupid.
Eventually, it wore me out.
One morning, after he stared at me across the breakfast table for ten entire minutes without blinking, I snapped inside.
That was the day I decided: I wasn't going to talk to him anymore.
No more greeting him. No more dragging him outside to play. No more trying to understand why he watched me like he was solving a puzzle only he could see.
I just wanted a normal friend. A normal kid my age who laughed and yelled and got dirt on their clothes.
Jace wasn't that.
So I stopped trying.
---
It began quietly at first.
I'd pass by him in the hallway without looking. I'd answer Aunt Maya's questions but ignore his. I'd sit on the opposite side of the room during family gatherings.
He never complained.
Never frowned.
Never reacted.
Which only made it worse.
I needed him to react—get angry, get sad, say something.
Anything.
But he didn't.
He just watched. Always watched.
Silent. Patient. Almost… hopeful?
I didn't notice that then.
All I noticed was that I felt small and invisible around him.
---
The real breaking point came on a sunny weekend. Aunt Maya had decided both families would spend the afternoon together.
"Theo" she said sweetly, cupping my cheeks, "why don't you play with Jace? He hasn't gone outside all day."
I pouted. "I don't want to."
"Just one hour," she coaxed.
"No."
She paused, then pulled out her ultimate weapon.
A chocolate bar.
A big one. My favourite.
She shook it temptingly. "If you play with him for a little while… you can have this."
My resolve cracked instantly.
I was nine. I had weaknesses.
"Fine" I grumbled. "But he better not just stand there again."
She smiled, relieved. "Thank you, sweetheart."
Jace stood by the doorway, quiet as always, hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
He didn't know I was bribed to play with him. He didn't know I'd already decided I didn't like him.
He just followed me outside like an obedient shadow.
---
I grabbed my football and kicked it lightly. "Catch!"
It rolled toward him slowly.
He didn't move.
It stopped by his foot.
He looked down at the ball.
Then at me.
I huffed. "Pick it up."
Silence....
I kicked the ground in frustration.
"Jace! Don't just stand there! Play!"
He blinked once, head tilting a little.
"I don't know how," he said softly.
…Seriously?
I stomped toward him and shoved the ball toward his hands. "Just throw it back! It's not that hard!"
He held the ball awkwardly, fingers curled uncertainly around it.
His expression didn't change.
He didn't seem uncomfortable.
Or confused.
He was just—unfazed.
Unbothered.
Emotionless.
Like nothing I did mattered.
It burned something inside my chest.
"Are you even trying?" I snapped.
He looked right into my eyes.
Quietly. Calmly.
"I am here" he said.
That was it. That was his whole effort.
Just… existing.
That's when I lost it.
"That's not playing!" My voice cracked with frustration.
He still didn't understand. Or didn't care.
I felt tears sting the back of my eyes—not even from sadness, but pure annoyance.
He was supposed to be my brother.
My friend. Someone I could play with.
But he was just a statue with a pulse.
I shoved him. Not hard—just enough to make my point. But he was smaller than I expected. Lighter.
He fell to the ground with a soft thud, eyes widening slightly—not from pain, but from surprise.
For the first time, his expression actually changed.
But I didn't see it. I'd already turned around.
"I'm done!" I yelled and ran off, the chocolate bar forgotten.
I didn't look back. Not once.
---
That was the day I decided to never try with him again.
And that was the day the adults decided I was the villain.
Because of course, they found out.
Aunt Maya saw Jace later—dust on his clothes, a faint scrape on his palm—and her expression tightened.
Uncle Rowan picked him up gently, asking what happened.
And Jace…didn't say a word.
He didn't snitch. Didn't cry. Didn't blame me.
He just looked toward our backyard gate, where I'd run off.
And that was enough.
My mother dragged me inside the house by my ear.
"Theodore Frost! You do NOT push your cousin!"
"He is not my cousin!" I yelled, yanking my arm back. "He doesn't even talk! He doesn't play! He is weird!"
"That is no excuse!" she snapped.
"He is new here, he's trying, and you are being cruel!"
Cruel.
The word hit harder than the lecture.
I wasn't cruel. I wasn't.
But from that day, everyone treated me like I was.
Whenever Jace stood alone in a corner, adults scolded me.
Whenever he quietly watched me play with other kids, they lectured me for "excluding" him.
Whenever he looked sad—though I never actually saw him sad—they blamed me.
I found new friends in our neighborhood—kids who laughed, yelled, and ran with me.
Kids who didn't just stare at me like I was their personal obsession.
But even there, Jace would sometimes appear at the gate, watching.
Just watching.
My friends asked, "Is that your cousin? Why is he just standing there?"
I didn't know what to say.
So I just said, "Ignore him."
And that's exactly what everyone did.
Including me.
Especially me.
Ignoring him was easier.
Ignoring him made me feel normal.
Safe. In control.
But it also made the adults angry.
"Theo, include him."
"Theo, don't leave him alone."
"Theo, stop being selfish."
Every word pushed me further away from him.
Every scolding made resentment grow sharper in my chest.
Every punishment made me hate him a little more.
And Jace…never complained.
He took the blame silently.
He took the distance silently.
He took my hostility silently.
Sometimes he looked at me like he wanted to say something.
But the words never came.
And I was too tired, too annoyed, too young to understand—that the more I pushed him away,
the more tightly he clung to me in his quiet, secret, obsessive way.