The Silent Grief

"What do you mean I'm like your brother? Do you see me as ... your brother? Is that what you're trying to say?"

Noah shakes his head slowly, as if something inside him just rearranged. Then his tongue flicks across the corner of his mouth—dry habit—and he exhales sharply, tired. He leans forward, forearms on his knees, rubbing his palms together.

"No," he finally says. "That's not what I meant."

His voice is quiet, but sure. Like the words have weight, and he's trying to carry them carefully now.

"I didn't mean it like that. When I said you're like my brother … I meant it literally."

The silence after that feels louder than anything he's said.

I blink. Confused. "Literally?"

He nods once, slow. Like gravity's pulling his head down.

"That room you sleep in. It used to belong to him," he says. "I probably should've told you that before offering you a place to stay."