I wake up already tired.
Not the kind that comes from too little sleep. There is no ache behind my eyes, no headache, no dryness in my mouth. Just a weight, settled deep in my chest, like something heavy was placed there overnight and forgotten.
The ceiling looks familiar. The same faint crack near the corner. The same pale color that never quite looks clean no matter how many times it is painted over. I lie still for a moment, waiting for the pain to arrive. Waiting for the rush. The collapse. The reaction that is supposed to come after news like that.
Nothing does.
I get up because staying in bed feels pointless. Because movement, even meaningless movement, feels safer than thinking.
The kitchen is already awake when I walk in.
Coffee brews. Toast pops up from the toaster with a soft click. Morning light slides in through the window, thin and golden and indifferent. The house smells normal. Comfortingly normal. Like yesterday did not happen. Like the world did not tilt on its axis while I was sitting somewhere reading words that rearranged my entire future.
Life is rude like that. It keeps going. It keeps smelling like coffee.
Dad stands at the counter, back turned, pouring coffee into his chipped mug. He looks the same. Tired in the quiet, middle-aged way that has nothing to do with heartbreak and everything to do with routine. He glances at me over his shoulder.
"Did you sleep?"
"Yes," I say.
The lie slides out easily. Smooth. Practiced. It surprises me how little effort it takes.
Dad nods, satisfied, as if that answer solves something. As if sleep is the difference between okay and not okay. He turns back to his coffee, already done with the question.
I sit at the table and pull a plate toward me. Toast. Butter melting unevenly. I take a bite because that is what mornings require. The taste barely registers. I chew because my body remembers how. Swallow. Another bite.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the plate without me realizing it. Just for a second. Then I force them to relax.
I am aware of everything and nothing at the same time.
Lena is getting married.
The thought passes through my head like a sentence written in the wrong language. I can read it, technically. I just cannot make it mean anything.
Married.
To Samuel.
I wait for my chest to cave in. For my throat to close. For something sharp and undeniable to tear through me and prove that this is real.
Instead, there is only pressure. Dense and hollow at once. Like my ribcage has been packed with cotton.
I always thought this would undo itself.
The realization comes quietly, almost embarrassed by its own certainty. I always assumed this was temporary. That whatever this was between Lena and Samuel would burn itself out. That she would remember who she was before everything became heavy and narrow and wrong.
I assumed time would correct it.
I assumed she would choose herself eventually.
I stare at the crumbs gathering near the edge of my plate and wonder when exactly I decided the future owed me that ending.
What about her dancing?
The memory surfaces without warning. Lena barefoot in her living room, music playing from her phone, laughing when she messed up a step and trying again anyway. She used to talk about choreography with her whole body. Hands moving, feet shifting, eyes bright like she was already somewhere else.
Dance was never just a dream to her. It was a need.
Did she give that up?
Or did she give it up slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to notice?
What about everything she said she wanted?
The studio apartment she planned to share with friends. The way she talked about city lights like they were calling her name. A life that did not include being anchored so early, so permanently.
I take another bite of toast. It might as well be cardboard.
Across the table, Josh sits down without a word. He does not reach for food right away. He watches me instead.
I feel it before I look up. That familiar sense of being seen too clearly. When I meet his eyes, something in his expression shifts. Not concern exactly. Recognition.
He notices the stillness.
I know what I look like. Too calm. Too controlled. Like someone pressing pause on a scene that should be loud and chaotic. Josh has always been good at noticing what does not match.
Dad keeps moving around the kitchen, clinking mugs, flipping through the newspaper like this is just another morning. Like the house has not just absorbed another quiet fracture.
Josh finally reaches for his toast, but his gaze keeps drifting back to me. Measuring. Comparing me to the version of myself he expects to see.
I realize then that numbness is scarier than pain.
Pain would mean something is actively breaking. Pain would mean there is still a fight happening inside me. This feels like aftermath. Like arriving late to the scene of an accident and finding everything already cleaned up.
I finish eating even though my stomach feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. I wipe my hands on a napkin, precise and careful. Normal.
Josh's gaze lingers, heavy with things he is not saying. I do not look back this time. I am afraid that if I do, something will slip. Not loudly. Quietly. And I do not trust myself to know what comes after that.
The pain has not left.
It has just gone underground.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I step outside because the walls feel closer than they should. Because staying inside means being observed, even when no one is trying to look.
The porch creaks under my weight, the same tired sound it has always made. Morning air presses cool against my skin, sharp enough to remind me that I am still here, still occupying space. The driveway stretches out in front of me, empty except for Dad's old car and a scatter of leaves no one has bothered to sweep.
I focus on small things. The chipped railing. The way sunlight hits the concrete. A dog barking somewhere down the street. Anything that does not require language.
The door opens behind me.
Josh does not ask if I am okay. He does not ask why I walked out. He just steps onto the porch and leans against the railing beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth through his jacket.
We stand there without speaking. The quiet between us is not awkward. It never has been. Silence has always been something we shared easily, back when sharing a room meant whispered conversations at midnight and knowing when not to talk.
Josh breaks it gently.
"You found out something last night."
It is not a question.
I keep my eyes on the driveway. I do not nod. I do not shake my head. I do not correct him.
"No," I say after a moment. My voice sounds steady, which feels like a lie of its own. "Not really."
He hums softly, like he expected that answer. He does not ask what I found out. He does not say her name. He does not need to. Some names carry too much weight to be spoken out loud, especially this early in the morning.
The wind moves through the trees, rustling leaves like the house itself is breathing.
Josh shifts his weight, crossing his arms. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're standing upright but not actually in your body."
A quiet breath slips out of me. It almost turns into a laugh. Almost. "I didn't know I had that."
"You do," he says. "You've had it before. Just not this flat."
The word lands closer to the truth than I want it to.
We stand there a little longer. The sky is pale, undecided about the day. I wonder how many people are waking up to news like this. How many people are learning, quietly, that the future they assumed was waiting for them has already moved on.
Josh speaks again, his voice lower now.
"That kind of news doesn't knock you down," he says. "It hollows you out."
Something in my chest tightens, sudden and sharp, like a muscle finally remembering its job. I breathe out slowly, my breath fogging faintly in the cool air.
"Yeah," I say.
Josh does not try to fix it. He does not offer perspective or advice or reassurance. He does not tell me everything will be okay or that time will sort it out. He just stays there, solid and quiet, sharing the space beside me.
I realize then that he is grieving with me, not for me.
There is a difference.
This is not pity. It is recognition. A shared understanding that something has ended and no one can rewind it or soften the impact.
We stand together on the porch, two brothers facing the same direction, both aware that nothing is going to be repaired by words.