Lance Louise, epi-4 (the end)

That all those years of silence hadn’t erased what we once were. That I still remembered how he used to braid my hair when Mom was busy, how he’d sneak me candy under the dinner table, how he once punched a boy at school for calling me names.

But the words stuck in my throat. My lips parted, but no sound came out. Not even a whisper.

He took a step forward, then stopped. The rain dripped from his hair, ran down his cheek like tears he didn’t know how to shed. Maybe he had forgotten how. Maybe I had, too.

“I used to have nightmares,” he said suddenly, voice cracking. “Of Mom... calling for me. If Dad’s hand on the wheel. You're crying in the backseat.”

I looked down, my bare toes sinking slightly into the wet soil.

“I’d wake up hating the world. But mostly, I hated myself for not being there. And then… I’d see you. Alive. Breathing. And it would all come back. Like a curse.”

I bit my lip to stop the trembling. My heart ached with every word, yet I listened—because this was the most he had spoken to me in years.

“I thought if I pushed you away hard enough, you’d disappear. And maybe... so would my guilt.” He exhaled, heavy and sharp. “But you never did. You just stayed.”

I finally met his eyes. They weren’t as cold as I remembered. They were tired. Haunted. Human.

“I stayed,” I whispered. “Because you're all I had left.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The rain kept falling, soft and rhythmic, like the sky was trying to speak for us.

He looked at me—really looked—and something shifted. Not all at once. Not like in movies. But, like a stone finally turning after years of stillness.

He stepped closer, his hands clenched at his sides.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said. “I don’t even know if I can.”

I nodded slowly. “Then don’t fix it,” I said. “Just… stay.”

It was a simple request. Maybe even selfish. But at that moment, it felt like the bravest thing I’d ever said.

His lips parted, as if to protest—but instead, he let out a long, shaky breath. And then, slowly, his hand reached out. Not to hug me. Not yet. But he placed it gently on my shoulder. A start. And for the first time in over a decade, I let myself cry. Not for the past. Not even for the pain.

But for the tiny, flickering hope that maybe—just maybe—we were finding our way back.

One rain-soaked step at a time.

I thought many times about things being different, but never once did I think it would be like this, but anyway.

... I am happy, the once start ended in a great end. Me with my brother. Caring for each other, it was bliss. ...

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