Sometimes you just find yourself staring at the ceiling at 2 AM, right? Like, you're not even sad, not really, just… there. And your mind starts pulling up old tapes, old memories, the ones that probably shouldn't bother you anymore but they do, a little. You know that feeling when you're supposed to feel something Big and Dramatic but it just kinda… peters out? That's me, every single day, every day. It's my brother, man. Little bro, five years younger, the golden child, always. He had this thing, right? Like, chronic asthma, but it wasn't debilitating, you know? Just… annoying. Made him cough sometimes, made him miss a few days of school here and there. But you'd think he was on his deathbed the way my parents treated him. Me? I was running track, doing my homework, taking out the trash, scrubbing the bathroom, all the chores. Every single chore, every single day. Meanwhile, he's "too delicate" to lift anything heavy. Too "fragile" to be exposed to dust. Too "sensitive" for… well, for anything that looked like work. And he ate it up, that little bastard. "Oh, my chest hurts," he'd wheeze, right when I was about to ask him to help with the dishes. And my mom would swoop in like a goddamn eagle protecting its nest. I remember one time, I was maybe 15, he was 10. Mom asked me to clean the garage, a huge job, like, spiderwebs and old paint cans and everything. And he was just chilling on the couch, playing Nintendo, not a care in the world. I asked him, just a casual, "Hey, can you help me carry these boxes?" And he looks at me, all wide-eyed, "But my breathing, you know?" And my dad, from the kitchen, just shouts, "Leave your brother alone, he's not feeling well!" Not feeling well? He’d just run around the block chasing the ice cream truck like Usain Bolt ten minutes earlier! The injustice of it all, it just… stuck. Like a burr in your sock that you can't quite shake off. And the gifts, don't even get me started on the gifts. Every new console, every new game, "to keep his spirits up." Me? I had to save my allowance, work odd jobs. I wanted a new skateboard so bad, and I had to beg, borrow, and practically steal to get one. He’d get a new bike just because it was Tuesday. And when I’d complain, just gently, my mom would give me that look, that "don't you dare begrudge your sick brother" look. It wasn't even about the stuff, not really. It was the principle. The sheer, unadulterated favoritism, cloaked in concern. He’s fine now, by the way. Completely healthy, runs marathons, eats whatever he wants. And he’s still got that little twinkle in his eye, that "I got away with it" look. We're close, in a way. He's a good guy, mostly. But sometimes, when he calls, and he’s talking about some minor inconvenience, I hear that same whiny note in his voice, and I just… I gotta hang up. Not in anger, not anymore. Just a quiet click. Because some things, some resentment, it just… it sticks with you, you know? Like a really stubborn stain. And you wonder if you’ll ever really scrub it out. Probably not.