The morning light slanted through the trees, golden and warm — but it didn't reach me. Not fully. Not after the dream I had. Not after waking up with the taste of yesterday still heavy on my tongue.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, staring at the floor. The present had returned, yes. But the past hadn't let go. It clung to my thoughts — my brother's voice, the warmth of my mother's hand, the undone conversations, the moments I'd never appreciated when they were right in front of me.
But today wasn't about grieving them.
Today, I would find out what was still left of them. Of us.
The first thing I did was take the old road back to our school bus stop. It had been years. Long enough for the roads to crack and weeds to sneak through the pavement. But the bench? Still there.
Same old steel frame, only rustier.
And standing beside it — was him. My brother. Not in memory. Not in the past. But now.
I blinked.
I had forgotten this day — maybe on purpose. It was a fleeting moment in our history, a day I had dismissed. But now, seeing him there, with his headphones on and bag slung carelessly on one shoulder… it hit me.
I'd never said goodbye properly.
"Hey," I called, heart thudding.
He looked up. Half-surprised. His eyes scanned me, then narrowed. "You came early?"
"Thought I'd walk with you."
He raised a brow but said nothing. Just stepped aside, letting me stand beside him.
No dramatic hug. No music swelling in the background. Just awkward silence between two brothers who used to fight over who got the last biscuit.
I laughed under my breath. He turned. "What?"
"Nothing," I said, grinning. "Just remembering something stupid. You remember that time we broke Dad's toolbox trying to build a skateboard?"
He snorted. "That thing never rolled. You nailed the wheels sideways."
"You said it'd work."
"You believed me."
We both laughed — really laughed — and I felt something shift. A bridge, quietly rebuilding.
We got on the bus. The same squeaky doors. The same aisle that once felt too narrow for our legs.
He sat by the window. I sat next to him.
He pulled out his phone and unplugged one earbud, handing it to me. "Still like that old Coldplay song?"
I nodded, slipping it into my ear.
As the music played, I looked at him — really looked.
His fingers tapping the beat.
The scar under his chin from a fall.
The way he glanced at me once, checking if I was still listening.
In this moment, he was no longer just a brother I missed. He was here. Real. Present.
After school, instead of heading home, we went to the bakery down the road. The same place we used to sneak to.
He ordered two cream buns without asking what I wanted. Like he always did.
"You ever think we'd still be doing this at our age?" he asked, his mouth full.
"Honestly? I didn't think we'd talk again."
He paused. Then, quietly, "Neither did I."
We sat there in silence, the cream too sweet and the table too sticky — and none of it mattered. I had him back. Maybe just for a day, maybe not. But I wasn't going to waste it.
As we walked home, I said something I never got to say all those years ago.
"I'm sorry. For everything I didn't understand back then."
He stopped walking.
"So am I," he said. "But… I think we turned out okay."
And for the first time in years, I believed it.
Tomorrow, I'd face something harder. Something darker.
But today?
Today, I was a brother.
And we were just… us again.