I don't realize how much I've been waiting for her text until I finally accept that it's not coming.

Luciana left two days ago. I don't know exactly when she'll be back, only that she's in Colombia visiting her sister.

She took off just before Dariel's birthday. That was the part that surprised me the most. He told me he doesn't mind, that he knows she cares about him and that it's better she takes her time before returning. It wasn't hard for me to believe him. Luciana cares a lot about others and whoever disagrees is blind.

She cares so much that it makes others snap—like how Dariel didn't appreciate how much time she spent with me, or her parents questioning why she doesn't have many friends, because she spends all this time trying to take care of her own and our family.

She cares so much that when she finally has a reason to get angry, she goes all out—which happened during her argument with Dariel.

Every time my phone vibrates, my heart jumps before I even check it. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I let her take up so much space in my mind.

No, that's a lie. I do know why. I press my back against the wall of my bedroom and run a hand down my face. The house is quiet. Dariel's out with his friends for a belated birthday celebration, our father is at work, and I have nowhere to be. I should be enjoying the silence, but I hate it. It leaves too much room to think.

I reach for my phone, scrolling through messages from Newt, Thomas, Fry, and Alby in our group chat. They're talking about plans for the weekend, asking if I want to meet up. I'll respond later.

Luciana would probably tell me to go out. She'd say I spend too much time by myself, that it's not healthy, while she does the exact same. It's stupid. This feeling. This longing for someone who doesn't belong to me.

Later that night, I hear the front door unlock, followed by the familiar sound of Dariel's footsteps. I consider ignoring him and staying in my room, but I'm not in the mood to stare at my walls all night. So, I drag myself out of bed and head to the kitchen.

Dariel is leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone, still in his jacket. When he notices me, he grins. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." I open the fridge.

"She texted me," he says after a moment.

I don't react right away. I just grab a bottle of water and take a slow sip, keeping my expression neutral. "Yeah?"

"Long paragraph, wishing me a happy birthday."

I nod. "Cool."

Dariel lets out a short laugh. "You're so bad at hiding your emotions, man."

"Shut up."

"Acting all moody. We both know why."

I tense. "You're imagining things."

"No, I'm not. I know you, Minho. I told you before, didn't I?" he says. "That I don't like how much you like Lucy."

"I don't get why you care so much," I say.

"Because she's my girlfriend."

The words slam into me, even though I've heard them a thousand times before. I clench my jaw, gripping the water bottle tighter.

"Not this again."

"Yes, this again." He takes a sip of his beer, then tilts his head slightly. "I still think you have feelings for her."

I stiffen. "That's not true."

"Minho." His voice is calm, but firm. "Come on. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not."

"You know, you're not as subtle as you think."

"You're wrong."

"No, I'm not." Dariel takes another sip of his drink. "You're different around her, Minho. You've been acting weird ever since we got together." His eyes narrow slightly. "So tell me the truth. Have you ever been in love with her?"

I want to say no. I want to deny it outright. But my throat feels tight, and the words don't come as easily as they should. "No."

I expect him to challenge me. To push harder. But instead, he just exhales and shakes his head. "I don't believe you," he mutters.

I grit my teeth. "I don't care. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't do that, Minho."

"Do what?"

"Act like I'm imagining things." His voice rises. "I see the way you look at her. I've seen it for months. Do you think I'm stupid?"

I glare at him, my pulse hammering in my ears. "If you're so sure, then why are you asking me?"

"Because I want you to admit it," he snaps.

"Why? So you can feel justified in being an asshole about it?"

"You think I enjoy having to question if my own brother is in love with my girlfriend?"

"I'm not—"

"Don't lie!" he shouts.

I flinch but stand my ground. "Even if I was, what do you want me to do about it, huh?" My voice rises to match his. "You want me to stop talking to her? To pretend she doesn't exist?"

"I want you to be honest!"

"Fine. Yeah, Dariel, I care about her. Is that what you want to hear? That I care? Obviously I care. You think I enjoy knowing that no matter what, someone gets hurt? Either I suffer in silence, or Lucy finds out and it fucks up everything, or you sit there losing your mind over something I can't control!"

"You had a choice. You could've backed off. You could've put some distance between you two. But no, you stayed close. You kept her in your life, knowing how you felt. This is fucked up, Minho."

I clench my fists. "You think I don't know that?"

Silence. We just stand there, both of us too stubborn to look away.

Dariel's chest rises and falls, his fingers curling into his palms. I can see it, the barely restrained fury, the frustration, the jealousy, the betrayal. I know because I feel it too, because it's tearing me apart from the inside out.

"I don't enjoy it either, Dariel," I go on. "I don't like watching you in this state."

"Then why the fuck didn't you stop? Why did you stay? Why did you keep acting like you were her best friend when you knew damn well it wasn't just that?"

"You don't get it."

"Indeed, I don't. If you care so much about my state, then why don't you stay away from her?

"You think it's that simple? That I can just wake up one day and stop caring?"

"Yes, actually," Dariel snaps. "If it means respecting my relationship, then yeah. You should've distanced yourself."

"Shut up—"

"You should've done something about it before it got this far!" His fist slams against the counter, rattling the bottles near the sink. "Instead, you let it linger. And now we're here."

"You act like I'm just—just selfishly ruining everything on purpose." My breathing is heavy, uneven. "Like I'm not trying—"

"You're not trying hard enough!"

My whole body tenses. Before I know it, I shove him, hard.

It makes me freeze for a second. This always happens when I have an argument with someone. I try to keep up with words, but at some point, it feels like too much and I just have to start physically fighting.

Dariel shares the same thing. That's what frightens me most. He lashed out on Luciana. Does that mean I would also do that?

No, no. I've never hurt a woman. Mom and I have gotten into plenty of arguments. I never hurt her. I would, and will, always run upstairs before it goes too far.

Reality snaps back in. Dariel stumbles, hitting the cabinets with a dull thud.

Then he lunges right back at me. His hands grab the collar of my shirt, slamming me into the fridge with enough force to knock the breath out of me. I barely get my hands up before he shoves me again, this time pushing me toward the kitchen island.

"You're so selfish," he seethes.

"Fuck you." I give him another push.

He stumbles but catches himself fast. I barely dodge his swinging fist, the punch grazing my jaw instead of landing full force. My own anger flares, blinding. I drive my shoulder into him.

He crashes against the dinner table. Chairs topple over. Our bodies collide again, the force of it slamming me back against the counter. Pain explodes through my ribs. My fist grazes his jaw as he grabs me by the collar and shoves me backward, knocking glass to the floor. It shatters, but neither of us react.

"Say it." Dariel pushes me up against the wall. I do my best to get him off, but he's too strong. "Say you love her, then."

My knuckles connects with his chest, shoving him back with enough force that he staggers, nearly hitting the table. He catches himself at the last second. For a second, I think he's going to knock me out. For a second, I want him to.

But he doesn't. He just stares at me, his chest rising and falling, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. The front door slams so hard that I feel it in my bones.

My eyes wide. The glass on the floor glints under the kitchen light, shattered, just like everything else.

A voice. "What the hell is going on in here?"

My head jerks up. I see him standing in the doorway, briefcase in one hand, his suit jacket wrinkled, his tie slightly loosened like he's just come back from a long day. His eyes flick between me, the broken glass, the chairs, and Dariel.

"What the hell is going on in here?" He repeats.

I open my mouth before Dariel can speak, the words pouring out before I can stop them. "Maybe you'd know if you'd be home more often."

His eyes snap to me, a flicker of surprise before the anger takes over. "Don't test me, Minho," he warns. "You don't have a clue what it's like to carry this family on my back."

"You don't carry this family. You abandoned it," I hiss. "Get out of my face. You're nothing but a ghost in this house."

His response is immediate. His hand flies out, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt with a force that makes me gasp. "You want to disrespect me?You think you can talk to me like that? You've got a big mouth, Minho."

I barely process it before my head jerks to the side, my jaw exploding with pain. For a while, all I hear is the ringing in my ears.

I stumble back, the taste of blood blooming in my mouth.

Dad lets go off my collar. "Watch your mouth—"

Dariel moves fast, his knuckles hitting Dad the same way Dad's just hit me. "You don't fucking touch him!"

Our father recovers fast. His eyes blaze as he grips Dariel by the collar and slams him against the wall. "You little—"

Dariel doesn't let him finish. His knee comes up—hard—slamming into our father's stomach. He gasps, the air knocked from his lungs, and Dariel shoves him off with a force I didn't know he had.

"Never touch him again," Dariel threatens.

He turns and leaves. Like the coward he is.

The front door slams shut behind him, and then it's just me and Dariel.

My cheek throbs, my mouth tastes like iron, but I can hardly feel any of it over the shock of what just happened.

Dariel looks at me then. "You good?" he asks, his voice quieter now.

"Yeah."

He walks past me, clapping me on my back with such pressure that betrays he's also still angry at me. "Pack your bag. We'll go to Mom's."