Shadows of Resentment

The silence in my room was a sharp contrast to the lively dinner earlier. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the worn photo I kept on my desk—a snapshot of Dorian and me from years ago. We were maybe seven, grinning ear to ear in matching baseball uniforms. Back then, there was no competition, no comparisons. We were just brothers.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

The dinner had left me hollow. Dad's words still echoed in my head. "You should take a page from Dorian's book. Look at how he's making things happen." He didn't mean it as a personal attack, but it felt like one. Mom had tried to soften the blow by changing the subject, but the damage was done. I couldn't ignore the sting, the same sting I'd felt for years.

I wasn't angry at Dorian, not directly. It wasn't his fault he excelled at everything. It wasn't his fault people adored him. But I couldn't help the resentment bubbling inside me, the growing belief that as long as Dorian was in the spotlight, I'd never be seen.

The days that followed were no better. Dorian continued to shine, his charm and confidence lighting up every room he walked into. At work, he closed a deal that had been hanging in limbo for weeks. Our father, ever the proud patriarch, mentioned it again at dinner two nights later.

"That's how you handle business," Dad had said with a pointed glance in my direction.

I didn't react outwardly. Years of practice had taught me to keep my feelings hidden. But inside, I was seething.

Dorian, as usual, seemed oblivious. He smiled and thanked Dad for the praise but didn't notice how I clenched my fists under the table.

He wasn't cruel, but that was the problem. He didn't need to try to overshadow me; it just happened naturally.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts turned dark as I mulled over my options. I didn't want to hurt Dorian, not really. But I couldn't keep living in his shadow.

It started small. At work, I mentioned to a colleague in passing that Dorian might be stretched too thin. "He's been taking on a lot lately," I said, feigning concern. "I just hope he's not biting off more than he can chew."

The colleague nodded, her brow furrowing. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

At a networking event later that week, I did the same. This time, I hinted that Dorian's recent success might be due more to luck than skill. "He's good, no doubt," I said. "But timing is everything, right?"

It was subtle, calculated. I wasn't lying outright, just planting seeds of doubt. Watching those seeds take root gave me a grim sense of satisfaction.

Elena was always perceptive, one of those people who could sense what was going on beneath the surface even when you thought you were hiding it well. We hadn't seen each other in a while, so running into her at a small café downtown caught me off guard. She approached with that familiar, warm smile of hers, a blend of genuine friendliness and curiosity.

"Leonard!" she exclaimed, her tone as bright as ever. "What are the odds? Mind if I join you?"

I nodded, gesturing to the seat across from me. "Of course, take a seat."

She settled in, her movements graceful as always, and placed her coffee on the table. For a moment, she said nothing, just studied me in that quiet, observant way she had. I tried to focus on stirring the sugar into my tea, but her gaze felt heavy, like it could see through the cracks I was desperately trying to plaster over.

"You've been quiet lately," she said finally, her tone gentle but probing.

I forced a casual shrug, keeping my eyes on my mug. "Just busy, I guess."

Elena leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. "Busy, huh? That's all it is?"

Her words weren't accusatory, but they carried a weight that made my throat tighten. I wasn't sure how to respond. What could I say? That every day felt like I was sinking deeper into a pit of inadequacy? That I was tired of feeling invisible?

"It's nothing," I said quickly, hoping to shut down the conversation. "Work's been a bit hectic, that's all."

She didn't look convinced. "Leonard, come on. You know you can talk to me, right? If something's wrong…" Her voice softened, the concern in her eyes almost too much to bear.

I nodded, muttering, "Thanks, Elena," though my words felt hollow even as I said them. Her kindness only made the weight on my chest heavier. I didn't deserve her concern—not when I'd been too consumed by my own bitterness to appreciate people like her.

I quickly steered the conversation in another direction, asking her about her work, her plans, anything to keep the spotlight off me. She went along with it, but I could tell she wasn't entirely fooled.

Later, I found out she'd brought up our conversation with Dorian. He told me in passing, almost laughing about it. "Elena thinks you're stressed," he said, a slight smirk on his face. "Told her you're probably just overthinking, as usual."

His words grated on me, even though I knew he didn't mean anything by them. That was Dorian for you—always the optimist, always assuming the best, always brushing things off as no big deal. It wasn't malicious, but it stung all the same.

Elena, however, didn't let it go. The next time we were at a family gathering, I caught her watching me from across the room. She wasn't staring outright, but her glances were frequent enough for me to notice. Her expression was one of quiet worry, her brows slightly furrowed as if she were trying to piece together a puzzle.

I avoided her gaze, pretending not to see her, but it was impossible to ignore the gnawing feeling in my chest. She cared, genuinely cared, and that made me feel like even more of a fraud. I was stuck in this downward spiral, and here was someone extending a hand to help, but instead of reaching out, I pulled further away.

Her concern was a reminder of what I had become: someone who didn't even know how to accept kindness anymore. And as much as I appreciated her intentions, I couldn't shake the feeling that her worry was misplaced. This wasn't something anyone else could fix. It wasn't something I wanted fixed. Not yet.