The news of my comatose brother regaining consciousness feels like any other day. I go through the diagnostic reports. I speak to a bunch of adults over the phone and by email. I eat a bit of lunch on the way to the hospital. I'm aware of the strangeness of how mechanically I am functioning. I should be feverish from the anxiety and excitement.
He died when I was eight. But as expected of Kusuo, he couldn't just die normally. He left us with a body below 0 degrees temperature, with no pulse, breathing, or blood flow. His tissues were intact, like in a stasis. His young, developing brain, the first organ to suffer irreparable damage from oxygen deprivation, was functional but non-responsive. From all medical angles, my little brother was dead. All the wise and wizened experts in the broad, broad field of determining what was alive said so.
Having been haunted by the mystery of this tragedy for two years, I deserve to be overjoyed. Maybe it's "shock." Emotions left unused for so long may need a bit of coaxing to come out. I test myself. I pour my effort into imagining an emotional reunion.
Let's see. A reunion… A going back to the 'old times,' the familiar moments we shared. If Kusuo were to see me, he would at least be surprised. His older brother got even older. I'm ten now. I've grown three and a half inches, which means I'm still ahead in height (as any older brother should aspire to be).
Maybe you should have given yourself a few extra inches if you're coming back from the dead," says the vision of myself. "But I don't want to hear you complain about being unfair. We can postpone the result after Mama is done stuffing you with her homemade cooking."
Kusuo hated losing just as much as I did. I can't imagine he'll take the taunt quietly… But what do I know? My life has been nothing but shattered expectations. Back then, I couldn't have imagined the permanent distaste in his eyes melting into a vacant stare, either. How his tiny, petulant frame that had defied all logic since birth tumbled accordingly to ordinary physics. I watched the peak that had always looked down on me be swept like a sand castle against the tide.
Or, he won't care. That's more realistic. Kusuo was only a preschooler with barely the self-awareness to understand that pink hair wasn't normal. He only cared about those afternoon anime Mama caught him teleporting from school into the living room for. When I step into his room that's become his sepulchre, he'll be watching recorded episodes of Adventures from Wakudoki Land and drinking hot cocoa… How carefree of him. What an idiot.
Stupid. Selfish. Childish. Loser. A self-important, frivolous, dependent menace to the living and the natural laws.
And still nothing. Not the slightest tinge. Not the faintest shift. I wonder what this implies. I used to barrel through all sorts of emotions because of Kusuo. He had robbed me of my peace the moment he came home in a crib. His existence aggravated me daily as I chased after a semblance of happiness while under the torment of his shadow.
That's when I comprehended it. While Kusuo was playing the role of damsel-in-distress, I might have grown up inside as well. Without him, I flourished. I'm stronger, cleverer, and even more brilliant. The past two years had been like twenty for me. The old times will not do it anymore — they have expired and are no longer relevant to my being. My concern for him is no longer rooted in a desire to dominate but in the very ordinary reason of familial ties.
A change starts to sink into my day. I walk with greater certainty, and I appreciate the brightness of sunlight.
I come from an ordinary family. I'm aware that everyone starts their story like that. At some point though, you realize that what's ordinary for you is not quite like what's ordinary for others — there are gradations to it. There's an ordinary salaryman family. An ordinary broken family. An ordinary hellhole family with the deadbeat dad and the apathetic mom (the absence of the latter makes no difference.) An ordinary rich family. An ordinary education-obsessed family. An ordinary martial arts family where the talented heir refuses to inherit the dojo after a traumatic experience involving violence. It's the same stuff with me. In my case, it's an ordinary family with a genius, a psychic, Mama, and a monkey.
Maybe it's a little odd to have a monkey but I insist that we are an ordinary family regardless. I was born and raised in Nagoya. My parents were newly-wed when I came to the world, which means I was conceived probably in a college dorm while the roomie was away if I'm being optimistic. The monkey, who also happened to be (undeniably be) my father, was insistent on making ends meet with his own hard-earned money, turning down any form of help from my grandparents. We could only stay in a two-bedroom apartment with the strict condition that noisy, crying babies would lead to a sudden eviction. Thankfully, I was relatively self-aware by the time I was brought home and did not have to alarm my mother with any wall-piercing screeching. There was no issue with my younger brother either. He spoke directly into her mind to relay his needs. With - you know - telepathy.
So, everything worked out. My brother and I grew up to be healthy, squabbling gremlins that occasionally made our parents groan. We vied for the attention of our mother and sabotaged each other constantly. We had our meals together while our tiny legs fenced under the table (a fleeting rivalry after a bowl of miso turned casualty and Mama transformed into an entity that had the bearded old man in the North Pole cross out our names from the Naughty List for ten days.) We'd race who could eat faster, who could run out of the bathroom quicker, and who could pull down Papa's pants first after a long day at work. There were occasional talks about having a family dog once we were older and in a bigger home. (Something about helping us socialize. Dogs are the biggest ass-kissers though, so I found the intent somewhat head-scratching.)
An ordinary family, as I'd mentioned. How else could that character's backstory be described?
"Kuu-kun!" Mama's smile is beautiful and kind, my initial worries dissipating at seeing her in good spirits. I could hear from her voice that she had been holding back tears when I called. That is the normal reaction, so that hasn't been what tipped me off. What does is the quaintness of the room. The sterilized air, Mama's soft humming. It is peaceful, the same as it always has been. It is a bit off-putting. Today is supposed to be special. This is the long-awaited moment, isn't it?
I don't get the chance to ask. Mama earnestly turns to Kusuo. Her strong hands are wrapped around his left as though she is memorizing the lines on his palms.
"Kuu-chan, look," she coos with joy that's both brimming and subdued. "It's your brother."
I've heard that a lot in the last two years. "The older brother," "the patient's brother," "Kusuo-kun's brother." Once, I overheard a doctor referring to me as "the surviving brother." But usually, "brother," when used, didn't refer to me. It was about Kusuo."I'm sorry about your brother," they always say.
It is no bother to me. They're merely words, and to these people, we're merely another family with a tragedy. It's something I learned almost immediately after we decided to admit Kusuo to a hospital. We didn't stop becoming an ordinary family after one of us became very sick. It was a simple matter of misfortune. A prerequisite of suffering. There's no such thing as a life without the terrible parts. Thinking about it, it's like gacha except you don't want the 5-star pulls. It kind of makes sense that Kusuo would hit the less than 0.9% draw rate and lose two years of his life in the process. "Winning" isn't everything, clearly.
I cross my arms, lifting my chin high and meeting Kusuo's eyes. It's unfortunate, but now that Kusuo is conscious, no one can see his actual eyes anymore. They are covered again by a pair of green-tinted toy glasses. Shortly before he was out of commission, he suddenly started wearing it after the discovery that it sealed his petrification ability. Thanks to Mama's vigilance and quick thinking, she managed to put it back on when he came to be. It's very conspicuous. I wonder if regular glasses can work.
"How are you feeling?"
I smile. It's the first time I ever smile around Kusuo. I can't blame him if he finds it suspicious. If the positions were reversed, I'd be freaking out. It would be so shocking that I wouldn't be able to recite the first 99 digits of pi. But unlike me, Kusuo can read minds, so he can't deny that I come bearing only good intentions.
Kusuo is less discreet in taking in my features that have been released from the intensity of our childhood spats. He's practically meeting me again for the first time. I can't tell if he's confused, impressed, or disturbed.
But he's quiet. We can all hear how loud his silence is. A pretty boring reaction given how dramatic this moment — this day — is supposed to be.
I guess that's just how it goes sometimes. I feel the same after all. Somehow, this gives me a boost of confidence.
"Still a little groggy? Haha, I guess being in a coma was the quietest time of your life. Two years of sweet peace, and suddenly you're hearing hundreds of voices in your head again. It must be disorienting."
I reach for Kusuo's shoulder, the bone-sharp-looking under the medical gown. Papa likes to talk this way to convey sincerity. From what I understand, physical connection helps establish authenticity. But between Kusuo and I, this is a form of aggression. Even I'm thrown off by holding him this way and not giving it a forceful shove.
Kusuo doesn't react. For a moment, I was certain he would. Not that I was intentionally trying to get a reaction. I've forgotten what it's like to live alongside a telepath. Nothing has been able to surprise Kusuo. His older brother's new attitude isn't going to be the first exception, apparently.
That's good. Really, that's great. It makes things a lot easier.
"I'm glad you're back. To be honest, I would like your help as soon as possible. But your well-being comes first, so take it slowly and get your bearings back, okay?"
I'm impressed by my kindly disposition. Before you say me thinking it undoes it, you know from listening to my heart that I'm being honest, Kusuo. As both my actions and thoughts have proven, I have put our differences and past hostilities aside. I can understand if you're reluctant to accept this version of your big brother, so think of it as doing it for Mama's sake.
I wait. Kusuo blinks once. I can see his eyes moving to look at my ears and hair, then down to the buttons of my shirt.
He probably didn't catch that. I shifted from talking to myself to addressing him all of a sudden. Kusuo has been a telepath since birth, so this stuff is as easy as breathing for him — er, he hasn't been breathing for some time, so not the best comparison I can come up with. But the point is, he deserves some slack after what he had gone through. I've become such a generous guy.
Kusuo — as I said, I'm happy you're back. Heck, I'm pretty thankful you haven't glared at me. A small part of me was prepared for you to lash out and blame me for your condition. As a precaution, I waited for Mama to talk to you first before visiting.
Kusuo continues his staring. I've already blinked several times. Surely he knows this isn't a literal staring content.
It's a joke, I clarify into his telepathic ears. Kind of. You're not mad I didn't get here ASAP, are you? It's unexpected but… I was busy. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I took so long. Papa won't be able to leave work until much later, but trust me, he's going to be jumping for joy when he sees—
"You're… "
Kusuo's mouth hangs open. He pulls a hand away from Mama's grip and points at me. I don't notice my hand slipping from his shoulder.
"Have you been doing well?"
There's not much I can say on the day or the days leading to Kusuo's collapse. I can tell you it was partially cloudy outside. A Friday. At home by the living room, at least five feet away from each other. I was holding back tears of frustration after Kusuo beat me in a sofa-lifting competition. Mama was preparing dinner. Sometime during that, I noticed Kusuo had his face planted on the floor. Naturally, I laughed at him and made the most out of it by coming up with smug poses while he laid unmoving on my feet. After eighteen unique poses and thirty-five variations, I exhausted what I could do. The only thing left was to tell someone about it, so I ran to Mama and pointed her to the funny thing.
Mama did not laugh. Instead, she smiled her sweet, gentle smile. She thought he was silly to be sleeping on the floor, how tired school must have made him. Perhaps Kusuo had been making friends, she said something like that. It made her speak fondly of Kusuo despite how undignified he looked. I growled in my throat as she scooped him up on her arms, humming a merry tune. I poured all the will I could muster to my brain at the small chance I, too, would manifest psychic powers and use it to yeet Kusuo through the roof. I was never envious of my younger brother having powers. I don't use cheats. But at that moment, the monster thrashing in me didn't find the idea to be so appalling. I fumed and moped on my lonesome.
Then, Mama told me Kusuo was sick and that we have to go to the hospital.
I tried to reason with her. Kusuo looked fine earlier. Kusuo is being a baby. Kusuo just wants attention. We don't have a lot of money.
It wasn't that I didn't believe her. I believed that she believed Kusuo was sick. But it was like Mama knew something I didn't and spoke to me in a soft voice about how everything would be all right.
We didn't tell Grandma and Grandpa what was going on. Our parents were hoping Kusuo would get better on his own and didn't want them to worry (they don't know about Kusuo's powers.) Under ordinary circumstances, this would be negligence, and Kusuo and I would be taken away to live with our grandparents if found out. But there's an even worse scenario from that — maybe the worst case scenario of all: if anyone found out about Kusuo.
We couldn't tell doctors that Kusuo was psychic. If they didn't believe our word for it, the evidence from medical reports would give away that he was something very different. It was quite the conundrum. Our parents wanted to protect him, but between being taken away or dying, they were ready to make that difficult choice. They came close to doing just that.
Until I told them — well, he wasn't dying. He's so special he's able to keep himself alive somehow. And the rest is history.
I had to step up to keep them from being broken by grief. It's natural that they would be devastated, but it had been a vexing position for me. Having my brother around troubled me. Not having him around troubled our parents. I could not win no matter what. I was losing yet again, and Kusuo wasn't even participating!
Then it hit me.
What were we competing over? What was the winning condition with Kusuo in this state? In this state where he did not have consciousness…
It's the first one to cure him. Either Kusuo wakes by himeslf or he wakes up with my intervention.
The stake was high. The prize — much bigger. Kusuo would be owing me his life. I would be his eternal saviour, deserving of his worship! I felt that this was not just my only chance, this was the chance. The signs could not be clearer. Every day, I would wake up from dreams where my victory — my first ever — had been fulfilled. Kusuo would be in tears. Finally, he got to taste what defeat was like. Justice had found him and humbled him like the mallet on a whack-a-mole (he loves that game; oh, the irony!) But with those salty tears came a smile. He wasn't crying from the utter shame of being bested. He was grateful. I brushed it off. He wasn't going to distract me from my win.
It went on from weeks to months and to a year. What was once a nectar turned to a malady. I grew weary of these dreams. The celebration. The bothersome tears. My parents stopped appearing in them. The scene shrunk to involve only Kusuo and I with dark corners and a blurry backdrop. In one dream, I tried punching him. It didn't make him disappear, but it brought me satisfaction I haven't tasted in a long time.
Is this what Kusuo have always felt? Why he always had that disinterested, punchable mask for every victory he'd snatched away from me? Isn't winning supposed to feel good? If constant defeat made me feel horrible, then why was the opposite of defeat making me numb and desensitized?
I let the idea go. There isn't any point to it. At the end, they were only dreams. Reality is different.
And the reality is I lost. My first lost in two years, and here I am, checking the reaction in Twitter on the episode of the late-night drama I watch.
As soon as Papa looms over Kusuo's bed and catches a glimpse of his face without the pallor of death shadowing it, he mutters a curse and bursts into tears. Mama rushes to console him. She takes his head to her chest and combs her hand through his hair. But, since Mama is almost a head shorter than him, Papa has to bend his knees, all the while clenching his jaw to keep his sobbing down lest he wants to wake Kusuo. I've never seen Papa look uglier.
I'm not sure myself why I'm pretending to be getting emails done. I feel horribly out of place. Since having had more interactions with other adults, I learned that our parents are more sensitive than most. They feel more than others and they don't hide it. Minus the patheticness of the reaction, this is honestly how I thought Mama would have reacted. It doesn't surprise me to find out that she's the more composed one of the two, what with the children she's always taking care of. One is fast asleep by 7 PM, and the other one can't get his emotion under control.
"Thank you, Mama. I'm all right now." Papa dabs a wrinkly, soggy handkerchief under his eyes before putting his square-framed glasses back. I get this inexplicable feeling I won't be doing emails at all tonight. "I'll go get some fresh air… Kusuke, you come too. You're always sitting on your butt these days. Morning, noon, evening. I'm not saying you're lazy, but stretching your legs once in a while isn't going to cut it."
I voice my agreement, not that I actually agree. But that's how adults talk. They speak in subtly, coded words laced with lies and bits of truth. As a parent, Papa wants me to be healthy and well, and it is true that my current lifestyle hasn't been ideal for my physical growth. But he's aware of how important my contributions are, that I am not some kid who you can just tell to get out of his computer. Papa wants to talk to me in private.
I do feel a tiny urge to be uncooperative. If I make a quip, I can make it difficult for him to get what he wants. But no, I won't do that. Having experienced a tremendous amount of work, socialization, and little to no rest, I understand now the dimensions of being exhausted adults go through.
"Well?" Papa hands me a chocolate bar. He's holding another bar for himself. "How are you feeling?"
"Hmm, I'm okay. I'm happy, obviously, but maybe it hasn't sunk in yet…" I accept the chocolate bar and unwrap it to take a bite. Kind of weird to be having this conversation with chocolate bars in front of Seven Eleven, but that's my father for you. Childish and lacking eloquence.
Papa nods. "Honestly, I've had this feeling for the longest time. I knew this day would come. It was only a matter of when."
If it were an inevitability, then what have we been procuring money and resources for?
I'm not mad. Even with Kusuo making a fool out of me in the end, I know the show of effort placated my parents in this trial. Looking after them is also the duty of the eldest.
"You didn't look like you were pretending."
"Pretending? Oh - of course, I wasn't! Anyone would be crying for joy! I had a feeling, but that doesn't mean I would be unaffected. I'll have a reaction!"
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. I had a lot of faith," he says. True enough, he does sound like a former layman that became religious yesterday. "Thanks to Dalles-sensei, the staff, your mother, and every person we've met. And especially my amazing son."
Papa puts his hand on my shoulder.
"You worked the hardest out of everyone. You believed Kusuo would get better more than any of us. It's shameful, the way your mother and I acted… We were willing to give up on Kusuo. We were going to ab -"
"Don't." I cut him short. "As parents, his well-being is your priority. There weren't many realistic options that could be taken, but you didn't forget what was most important."
"You're saying the decision was correct. But that still doesn't make it right. Not with how sick I feel when I think about what would happen if you hadn't been there."
I chew on the chocolate bar as slowly as possible. I don't understand why he insists on making it more complicated than it has to be. The burden of parenthood? Or his sensitive nature?
"At that time, we had to consider the worst-case scenario," I remind him. I can't speak gently as Mama does, so I lower my voice to a solemn hush. "But it's not as if it's set in stone that Kusuo would be taken away from us forever. Think about it — wouldn't Kusuo be more cooperative if he had a degree of freedom? Maybe I'm being naive, but there's no telling how it would have gone until we tried."
I can see the anxiety dissipating from Papa's face.
"Nothing ends well from jumping to conclusions." I finish my chocolate bar. "Nor from starting with a negative mindset."
"That… does make sense. I see." Papa smiles gratefully before the embarrassment turns him uncharacteristically coy. "Geez, look at me, complaining and making it about me. Sorry, Kusuke. Papa has no excuse. I need to be a better father. I can't keep on letting you do all the work."
"We don't know what brought about Kusuo's sudden revival, but I'm sure everyone's collective effort had a part in it. I'm fortunate to be surrounded by a talented and supportive group."
I wonder if actors sometimes find themselves feeling like they're still on set but without the cameras. They know what to say. They calculate the size of their smiles, the duration of their gestures, and the motion of their eyes and lips. Is it exhausting to constantly act, or is it reassuring? To have this control from true-and-tried methods. To know what to expect.
I'm no actor. I don't think I'm acting. Why would I go through all this trouble if I didn't care? Papa is a good person despite his many glaring, often embarrassing, flaws. He is a good father and he cares for me.
Even Kusuo cares. There's no way I would have believed that his first reaction in seeing me again is to ask how I have been if not for today. If Kusuo cares, then I must care. If he cares 50%, then I must care 300%.
My words of sympathy are said out loud like reading from a script. They sound unnatural, yet they seem to resonate with others. I don't have a talent for getting along with others, but I'm able to pick up and learn what can stabilize an interaction. I know what people want to hear even while they aren't aware of it themselves. Is it this easy? Has it always been this easy?
It doesn't mean I don't love my family, right?
Kusuo's vitals drop.
In the next two days, he's in intensive care and plugged with life support for the first time. He's still not out danger by the time we were allowed to see him. Doctors have no reason to stop by. There's nothing else that can be done other than to wait. To hope, and to wait.
I throw my leather briefcase on the floor. It lands standing, catching me off-guard. I watch it as it slowly falls with a resoundingly weak thud. That's probably for the best. I don't want to alarm the nurses with sudden noises. I had my doubts it would work anyway. I was trying to emulate how grown-ups release their pent-up stress while no one was looking. It was out of curiosity, not necessity. Although, I'm still plenty frustrated. Frustrated enough that I feel like yelling and whining while pounding the table, like that social, female co-worker archetype who had been dumped by her boyfriend. But even in privacy, that's too embarrassing. Sure, I'm in the worst timeline right now. It's why I allowed myself this bit of immaturity. But given the circumstances, I don't think it's in good taste for me to behave that dramatical.
I retrieve the briefcase and place it against the whirling machine by Kusuo's bedside.
Mama and Papa are going through a lot right now. Compared to what they must be feeling — what they have to lose — I have nothing. Yes, I could lose my brother, but Kusuo and I were never close. It's sad, but I like to think that's how I've managed to stay rational. I don't want Kusuo gone. Not even the child-me who wished that a hundred times over would seriously want him dead. Without a doubt, it would have benefited me, but it's not fair. Kusuo deserves to live.
It's not a sentence I ever thought of making. It's not a sentence I thought that could come to be. My brother deserves to live.
I'm sad. I can feel it. It's in my chest. Small and trembling, waiting for permission to unravel. I don't need it. It really won't make a difference, so I allow it. The unfamiliar sensation spreads across my chest, chemicals from the brain triggering a physical reaction. The expression of grief is supposed to be a cathartic experience. I wait for the process to reach its completion and overwhelms me.
It stops short. It fills me to the brim for a moment before vanishing. I'm disappointed despite not having expectations.
"Well," I tell my machine-assisted brother, "You wouldn't want me crying anyway."
"But what do I know?" A voice that sounds like mine says in my head. "I never knew you."
A tear sprints out of my eye. I touch its cold trail, laughing.
"Scary. I have one of the greatest minds, yet my body can do as it pleases."
I have nothing to misinterpret. It's not because of Kusuo. It's because I found my indifference to be heartbreaking. I'm realizing that there's a part of me — a very strange, mysterious part — that wants to be brought down to my knees and bawl in despair like Papa. To be so deeply invested that my world could come to a collapse before dinner. Without that urgency, I feel cold. I feel like a bystander. I'm a robot performing its program with no questions asked.
It's not like I can stop. That's impossible. I'll keep on trying, and trying, and trying. Trying. Trying. Trying. Until Kusuo wakes up again, or until he passes on. When he dies, I'll have to comfort Mama and Papa. I'll have to become the son whose total merit is greater than a pseudo-immortal threat that could make them proud and happy. That would be my lifetime goal. In a way, that would be how I beat Kusuo because — of course — even when he's dead-dead, he'll continue being my competition. I feel ready. After what I've already been through, I don't think there's anything that can upset me.
I'll keep on going. Going and going. I'll go back to school. I'll meet people my age for a change and they'll find out how I lost my younger brother. I'll stand out and accomplish many great things. My character will be as excellent as my performance. I will be a productive part of society. I'll have to tell the story of Kusuo again, about how I tried to save him and that would tug at their heartstrings. I'll show my imperfection from the lessons I've learned, the past that is currently most of my life becoming my vulnerability. I'll tell them in a speech that we weren't close, but that didn't change how I felt. I regretted being childish with him. I wanted him to live.
Mama and Papa may never truly get over Kusuo's death, but I know they'll push through and become happy again. They're selfless people who would put their son before themselves. They love me and they'll make sure I know that no matter how much I complain about how cheesy they are.
Before I know it, my future has been mapped before me. The future me — he doesn't seem that different from me. It's not a bad thing. It's good. My future parents, my future friends, my future colleagues, teachers, fans, supporters, sponsors: they would be happy with the way I am. They'll be satisfied with both the narrative and the results. No one would know it's not a big deal for me, that the supposed hardships have been relatively easy to breeze through.
"You would know though. You would understand. You —" A force strikes me from within. I clutch my chest as I shudder and my breathing comes out haggard and harsh. My mind blanks. What happened? What was I getting at? Kusuo would know what? What would he understand?
"Me," the voice accuses.
"So what?" I challenge spitefully. "What do I care? We might be brothers, but we were never family. I might as well have been alone —" I swallow as my voice breaks, "—I've been alone."
"Alone," it echoes.
Alone. Alone…
The more it repeats, the more it expands.
Why is this happening? Why am I thinking about myself when my brother is right before me, struggling and barely clinging to life? I'm —
"Selfish."
I want my parents to be happy for me and forget about their dead son. I'm planning to live comfortably, accepting the failure that cost someone's life. I'm going to be living an ordinary life as if nothing bad happened.
I resist the urge to throw up.
I'm childish.
I'm a loser.
The illusion shatters.
"No, no, no…!"
There's no future for me without Kusuo. He can't die. I'll be ruined. A life without him — I'll be too sick of myself. I'll be an absolute trash, and no one will see it. No one will accept it. The world will mark me pitiful forever.
As I weep at my fate, the door opens.
"Kusuke… Oh, Kusuke…" Papa doesn't stay still for another second. He swoops around Kusuo and embraces me before I can escape. I push him away, causing his arms to wind around me tighter. "It's not your fault. You're good. You're kind; my sweet, sweet boy. You did everything — "
I've been holding it in but now I've been truly wounded. Papa's mean words dig deep and unleash a wail begging him to stop. He hushes me with cruel tenderness, cradling my frailness. It's starting. He doesn't know, and I'm too much of a coward to tell him otherwise. I'm left with the lies. I'm left with the facade.
"We'll get through it, Kusuke!" he whispers to my ear and despite his streaming tears, he convinces me that he means it. "Papa and Mama love you! Don't forget — never forget! No matter what happens —"
I sob harder. Papa thinks Kusuo will die, too. But he can't. I won't survive. They'll move on even though they love Kusuo. They can cry and also laugh. They're strong. I'm weak. I'm useless. I'm stupid. I shut my eyes and curl. The judgment of the world pierces further into my shell.
"I — " The voice doesn't have to keep on talking. I know what it wants to say. "I don't want to be alone."