I shift my gaze back to him now, lying motionless in the hospital bed. From the sofa across the room, the machines beeping faintly, I see not just his body, but the ghost of that night - the last time we truly faced each other.
I remember how punctual he had been that evening, arriving early, sitting in one corner of the cafe, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone. Maybe he wanted time to prepare, to rehearse what he would say, to steady himself for what we both knew would not be easy.
Perhaps part of his irritation that night stemmed from my 20-minute delay, courtesy of the chaos of evening traffic. By the time I arrived, breathless with apologies, the scales were already tipped.
And yet, despite the tension, I had been hopeful. I thought that if I could just sit across from him, if we could just look into each other's eyes, the years of silence would dissolve, the bond we once shared would resurface.
But as soon as I saw him - his posture closed, his eyes fixed stubbornly on his screen as if the phone could shield him from me - I felt that flicker of hope weaken. A part of me knew then that the evening would not end with hugs or promises of new beginnings, but with walls built higher, thicker, and harder to climb.
And now, here we are again - me waiting for him to open up, to return, to give me even the smallest sign. Only this time, there is no coffee house, no half-eaten food, no slammed door. There is only silence, sterile and suffocating. And I am left wondering if fate has dealt me the cruelest punishment of all: to be trapped in a second chance that requires his voice, his choice, his presence - yet he lies there, unreachable, while I am left drowning in the echo of everything we failed to say.
If I could go back to that evening, I would trade every insult for a pause, every wound for a chance to just sit across from him in peace. I would've reached across the table, touched his hand, reminded him that beneath the anger and the pride, he was still my brother, my blood, my boy.
But I didn't. I let my ego get the better of me, and he let his ego do the leaving. And now, here we are: two siblings who once fought loud enough to rattle walls, reduced to one lying in silence and the other begging for a sound, any sound, that proves we still belong to each other.
The hospital feels heavier with this realization. The monitors beep, indifferent to the wars we never resolved, indifferent to the apologies left unsaid. And I wonder, almost angrily, whether fate is mocking me - placing me here, forcing me to relive that coffee house night over and over in my head, as if to hammer home the truth that this might be the only form of conversation left between us: me, replaying the past, and him, unreachable in the present.