We used to share a room when we were little.

Dad didn't like spending money on things we didn't need, and apparently, separate bedrooms didn't make the cut. So for years, it was me and Dariel, crammed together in a space barely big enough for two beds.

I was seven. It was late—past bedtime, past when Mom usually came to check on us. I was awake, lying on my side, listening to the sound of Dariel breathing. He was always so still when he slept, barely moving, barely making a sound. It used to scare me.

That night, I whispered, "Are you awake?"

Silence.

Eventually, a tired groan. "Now I am."

I hesitated. I didn't know why I wanted to talk, just that I did. "If we had our own rooms, would you miss me?"

Dariel exhaled sharply, like the question was stupid. "I don't know. Maybe."

I frowned. "I'd miss you."

He was quiet for a long time. I thought he fell back asleep.

But then, softly—so soft I almost didn't hear it—he said, "I guess I'd miss you too."

I smiled in the dark.

Even then, I think I knew.

Dariel would never want to need me. He'd never say it. But it didn't mean he didn't.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

It was summer, and Dariel had a brand-new soccer ball. He was obsessed with it, kicking it against the fence, dribbling it through the yard like he was training for the World Cup.

I wanted to play too.

"Pass it," I called.

He hesitated. I saw the look in his eyes—the way he considered it, then decided against it. "You're too slow," he said instead.

I scowled. "I'm already ten! I'm not slow!"

"Yeah, you are. You'll just mess up."

"That's not fair."

Dariel ignored me, turning back to his game like I wasn't even there.

Instead of walking away, I ran straight at him, aiming to steal the ball.

I barely got close before Dariel spun, dodging me. I stumbled, arms flying through the air, and I hit the ground. Pain shot up my palms, my knees. Dirt clung to my skin.

I looked up at Dariel, expecting him to laugh, but he didn't.

His expression flickered. Just for a second.

He kicked the ball toward me.

"Fine," he muttered. "You can play."

I remember how he didn't want me to play, but when I fell, he let me anyway.

Dariel needs to see people cross a certain border before he can decide whether or not they're worth it.

No matter if that's about passing a ball or something else entirely.

I convinced Dariel to set up a goal using two overturned chairs, and we started kicking the ball around.

I wasn't trying to win. Not really. I was just playing. But then I managed to slip the ball past him, right through our makeshift goal, and something in him changed.

"No way," Dariel said immediately, shaking his head. "That didn't count."

"Yeah, it did."

"You stepped over the line," he insisted, though there was no actual line, just patches of uneven grass. "Redo."

I didn't understand it then, the way he couldn't let it go. I just knew that suddenly, it wasn't fun anymore. The sun felt too hot on my skin. The ball was something important to Dariel in a way I didn't get.

I kicked the dirt. "Whatever."

I thought that would be the end of it, but Dariel wasn't done. He grabbed the ball, set it in front of him, and stared at me. I just watched as he ran forward and launched the ball as hard as he could straight at the goal—except he missed.

He scowled. I saw his jaw tighten.

"Whatever," he muttered, kicking the chair over before storming inside.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty goal. And I realized Dariel hates losing.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Some older kid had shoved me in the hallway. I shoved back, because I wasn't going to let some asshole push me around.

It escalated. He swung first. I swung back. It was messy. I landed a hit before a teacher yanked us apart.

Dariel found out later. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't scold me for fighting. He just listened.

The next day, the kid who shoved me came to school with a busted lip.

I never saw Dariel do it. He never admitted to it, yet we both knew.

I asked him why, later, when we were alone.

"Because you fought like an idiot."

"So?"

"You fight to win, Minho."

I still didn't understand.

Now I do.

I fought when I was angry. Dariel fought when he had to.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Dad cared about grades. Too much.

We got our report cards the same day. I don't remember the exact numbers, just that mine were better than his. I should've been happy about that. But the second I saw Dariel's face, I wasn't.

I watched as he sat through Dad's disappointment, the sharp words, the way his grip tightened on the paper like he wanted to crush it.

"Minho got better grades," Dad pointed out.

Dariel said nothing. He didn't even look at me.

"It's not a big deal," I mumbled once Dad left.

"Yeah. Not a big deal for you."

He wasn't mad that I got better grades. He was mad that Dad cared more about my success than his.

So I never talked about school with him again, and he never asks me about how it was.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

At thirteen, I snuck out, staying out later than I should've. I got caught coming back through the window.

Dariel saw me first. He didn't ask where I'd been. Just stared for a second, then sighed.

"You smell like smoke."

I froze. "I didn't—"

"I don't care." He rubbed his face. "Just—go wash up before Mom sees you."

"You're not gonna tell?"

All he did was scoff.

I grinned. "So you do care."

"Shut up."

He covered for me that night. Told Mom I'd been in bed the whole time.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I don't know if Dariel ever realized the things I noticed about him.

How he hated losing.

How he fought differently.

How he covered for me, looked out for me, protected me—always in his own complicated way.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

We used to play board games as kids. Not often, but sometimes, when Mom forced us to have a "family night," we'd sit on the living room floor and play whatever game she pulled from the cabinet.

It was Monopoly that night.

I was winning. Dariel was losing.

He landed on my hotel, and I grinned, stretching my hand out. "That'll be eight hundred."

Dariel didn't move.

Mom sighed, already tired of the game. "Just pay him, Dariel."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached for his money and shoved it all toward me. "Fine. Take it."

"That's too much," I pointed out after counting the money.

"I don't care. I'm out."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I don't remember how the fight started. Maybe it was about grades. Maybe it was about sports. Maybe it was about nothing, just one of those nights where Dad was pissed off at the world and Dariel happened to be in his way.

I was fourteen. Dariel was sixteen. I sat on the stairs, listening to their voices rise and crash against each other.

Dariel never used to talk back. He used to take it, standing still under Dad's disappointment like it was rain and he was trying not to get wet.

But he spoke up this time: "Why do you even care? You're never here."

Dad went quiet.

"Watch your mouth," he then said.

Dariel laughed, but it wasn't funny. "Or what?"

I held my breath.

For a second, I thought Dad might hit Dariel.

But he didn't.

He just walked away.

Dariel stood there for a long time after that.

He never fought with Dad again.

Until a few days ago, when Dad hit me.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

It was raining. Hard. The kind of rain that drenched you the second you stepped outside.

I was fifteen. Dariel was seventeen. We were stuck at home, bored, staring out the window like prisoners.

I turned to him. "Bet you won't race me."

He snorted. "I'm not stupid, Minho."

But I was already on my feet, running for the door.

I heard him groan. Then—his footsteps behind me.

We raced down the street, through the puddles, rain pounding against us, soaking through our clothes. It felt reckless. It felt free. For the first time in forever, Dariel wasn't thinking about winning or losing or proving anything.

He was just running.

For once, we weren't competing.

We were just two kids, laughing in the rain.

I think that was the last time I ever saw him like that.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Dariel had a job at some shitty restaurant. Minimum wage, long hours, asshole manager. He barely slept.

I heard him come home late. I got up, wandered into the kitchen to find him standing there, still in his uniform, staring at nothing.

"Why do you do this?" I asked, voice deep with sleep.

He glanced at me. "Do what?"

"All of it. The job. The grades. Dad's bullshit. Why don't you just... not?"

He ignored me and walked away.

I think Dariel always knew he was going to have to be the responsible one.

I think somewhere along the way, he stopped expecting anyone to do the same for him.

And I think that's why he doesn't like me that much.

I thought I was jealous of everything Dariel has, but he's the one who's most jealous.