I kept the promise. I worked. I adapted. I became whoever anyone needed me to be.
Losing myself wasn't a decision — it was a side effect.
I made so many masks I stopped knowing which were lies.
But her smile — there was nothing more beautiful. Nothing quieter.
I told her everything.
Soon, my brother left. Traveling. Working. Gone more often than not.
Those were the easiest days. Her attention didn't have to split. It settled. On me.
She would ask questions. Listen. Stay.
It felt like something was finally choosing me.
But it never lasted.
He would come back, and I could feel it before I saw it. A shift. Subtle, but certain.
He would walk in, and she would turn — not fully, just her head. The way a flower tilts toward light.
She never did that for me.
With me, I had to stand in front of her. Speak first. Hold her attention in place.
With him, it moved on its own.
There was something between them I couldn't reach.
I could copy words. Rehearse reactions. Mirror tone.
But not that.
Not whatever made her look at him like she already understood.
In her eyes, I was still something unfinished.
Time passed.
I got closer.
Or thought I did.
There was a boy named Jude. Senior year. Track team. Loud in a way that didn't ask permission.
One afternoon, she bent to tie her shoe, and he took her bag — slung both straps over one shoulder like it belonged there.
She laughed. Reached out, just for a second, and touched his arm. Above the elbow.
I was too far to hear what he said.
I walked past them once. Then again. Then a third time, slower. Like I had misplaced something.
My hands stayed in my pockets. They were sweating.
That night, I couldn't remember what I ate.
But I remembered her hand. The exact shape her fingers made on his sleeve.
It wasn't just him. Anyone. A glance that lingered too long. A joke that landed too easily. A closeness I hadn't built.
It stayed with me longer than it should have.
I told myself it would pass. That it always did.
But nothing really disappears. It only changes shape.
By the time I reached my junior year, she was already in her final one. Same school. Same mornings.
We would leave together, sit side by side in the keke while the city dragged itself awake around us.
It wasn't much. But it felt like everything.
I hadn't seen much of the world. So I made one out of that.
At school, I stayed close to her. Close enough that people started asking.
*What are you two?*
I never answered. She didn't either.
So they decided for us.
Siblings.
It spread quietly. Easily. She didn't correct it. And after a while, neither did I.
It settled over everything. Soft. Permanent.
I became her brother. And she became something I had no name for.
She made friends. A lot of them. People who spoke for her. Defended her. Laughed with her.
Things I had always done.
I stepped back. Not all at once. Just enough.
She was happy.
That was enough. That's what I told myself.
Every morning, I stood in front of the mirror, toothbrush in hand, foam gathering at the corners of my mouth.
I said it out loud.
*She's happy. It's okay.*
Again. And again. Until the words lost their shape.
Hap-pee. O-kay.
Just sounds. Easy to say. Easy to repeat.
At night, it was quieter. That was when I felt it most.
The masks.
Not metaphorically.
I could feel them shifting. Sliding into place. Adjusting. Becoming easier to wear.
I told myself everyone did this. Everyone adjusted. Everyone performed. That this was normal.
But I couldn't remember the last time I touched my face and felt only skin.