Josh's room looks like it lost a fight with both nostalgia and adulthood.
One side is stacked with boxes and taped labels, the kind that whisper about resumes, rent, and a future that doesn't ask for permission. The other side looks like a paper massacre. Loose sheets everywhere. A battered notebook abandoned on the bed, its pages curled like they've been thumbed through one too many anxious nights. Pens lie scattered like fallen soldiers. A laptop sits dangerously close to the edge of the desk, its screen dark but warm, as if it was closed in a hurry.
The room smells faintly of instant coffee and something burnt.
I hover at the doorway, arms crossed, watching my younger brother pace between the mess like he doesn't quite belong in it.
"So," I say. "Do I need to be worried?"
Josh swivels around in his chair, startled, nearly knocking into the desk.
"About?"
"About you having a secret double life."
He squints at me, defensive already.
"Alice told me something dramatic. She said you're writing."
There it is.
The pause. Just a fraction too long. Long enough to confirm everything.
Josh exhales and leans back, spinning the chair slightly as if motion might distract from the truth.
"Wow. Snitch culture is alive and well."
"Josh."
"Okay, okay." He raises both hands in surrender. "Relax. I'm not writing a manifesto or planning a coup."
"That's… not comforting."
He laughs, light and careless, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I mess around. It's nothing serious."
I step inside and carefully avoid stepping on a pile of papers, bending to pick one up before I realize I shouldn't. The first paragraph alone is enough to make me pause.
"This doesn't look like nothing."
"I'm a messy person."
I sit on the edge of the desk and look at him properly.
"How long?"
He avoids my eyes.
"How long is a dangerous question."
"Try me."
He sighs and rubs his face.
"On and off. Years."
"Years," I repeat.
"Don't use that tone."
"What tone?"
"The I'm-rethinking-our-entire-sibling-dynamic tone."
I snort despite myself.
"When were you planning on telling me? After your book tour?"
He laughs, then falters. The joke lands wrong.
"I used to read your stuff," he says suddenly.
I blink.
"My… what?"
"Your poems. Stories. Whatever you were writing back then." His ears turn red. "You left notebooks everywhere. Under the couch. In kitchen drawers. Like literary landmines."
"You read those?"
"Secretly," he says quickly. "I wasn't brave enough to ask. And you were already moody. I didn't want to die."
I stare at him, stunned.
Pride swells in my chest, warm and unfamiliar. My little brother. Inspired by me. The same kid I thought only cared about video games, instant noodles, and somehow still managing to top his class.
"You never said anything."
"I was ten," he says. "Complimenting feelings was not in my skill set."
He goes quiet, then adds more softly,
"They were my escape."
Something tightens in my chest.
"When things got loud," he continues. "When Mom went on her 'be realistic' rants. Your writing felt like proof that another world existed."
I swallow.
"Josh…"
"Mom hated it," he says quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "The idea, I mean. Said writing was a phase. Said it wasn't a future. Said one artistic disaster in the family was enough."
I let out a dry laugh.
"She really knows how to inspire."
So that's what I was to her. An artistic disaster.
Good to know. Yet another reason I'm absolutely not attending her wedding to that corporate finance demon.
"So I did what she wanted," Josh continues. "Business. Corporate. Stability. I told myself it was fine. That I didn't care."
"And you didn't?"
He shrugs.
"I cared enough to stop."
Silence stretches between us.
"The divorce changed things," he says finally. "Watching everything fall apart even when we did everything 'right'." He looks up at me. "That's when it hit me. I could disappoint them forever and still be alive."
The words land heavy.
"So you started writing again."
"For real this time," he nods. "Under a pen name. Online. No expectations. No family pressure. Just stories."
"What kind?"
"Mystery. Suspense." His eyes light up. "I like traps. Setting things up and watching readers panic."
"Healthy," I say.
"Extremely."
He reaches for the notebook on the bed, hesitates, then hands it to me.
"Don't be nice."
I read.
And holy hell.
It's sharp. Clean. Every sentence earns its place. The pacing is tight, the tension deliberate. He knows exactly when to hold back and when to strike.
I look up slowly.
"Josh."
He braces himself.
"Yeah?"
"This is really good."
He scoffs.
"You're biased."
"No," I say. "If it were bad, I'd bully you. This is impressive."
His shoulders drop, just a little.
"You really think so?"
"I do." I tap the page. "You've got control. Confidence. You know where the story's going."
He exhales like he's been holding that breath for years.
"If you want," I say, "I can help. Editing. Brainstorming. Emotional damage consultation."
He grins.
"Careful. We might end up collaborating."
"Oh no."
"You bring the feelings," he says. "I'll bring the murder."
I laugh, loud and real.
"Deal."
He studies me for a moment, then says quietly,
"You know… your writing has more soul than mine."
I open my mouth to deflect. To joke. To deny it.
I don't.
I just nod.
Because for the first time in a long while, I don't feel strange or misplaced.
I feel like someone who taught his brother how to breathe.