Perhaps my face betrayed me, revealing more than I intended. Because almost instantly, his expression shifted - surprise flashing across his features before hardening into something heavier.
He leaned in, eyes narrowing slightly as he asked, "Then what made you stop replying to my texts suddenly? Why didn't you ever bother to check on me? To ask where I was, how I was?"
The words hung in the air like an indictment. He didn't stop there. His voice carried an edge, sharper now, more deliberate. "I don't hear from you unless I'm the one who reaches out. And when I do, half the time there's silence. Radio silence. And the other half? It's monosyllables, like I'm some stranger you have to tolerate. 'Okay.' 'Sure.' 'Fine.' That's all I get."
He paused, looked away, then, almost mockingly, mimicked my earlier tone with a shrug of his shoulders: "Much like the way you just said 'no' a few minutes ago. Quick. Cold. Empty."
He shook his head with a wry grin, took a slow sip of his coffee, and then looked back at me - eyes steady, piercing, as though daring me to come up with something real. Something that would help him understand whether to bridge the gap or let it widen further.
But once again, all I could muster was a brittle defense. "There are no issues from my end." The words sounded hollow even to me. I forced myself to add, "It's just that these past few months have been… stressful. Balancing work, personal responsibilities, everything. It's been a lot."
There was some truth to it, of course. My days had been stretched thin - navigating motherhood, juggling deadlines, battling exhaustion. But in that moment, my truth felt like an excuse, a flimsy shield against the weight of his disappointment. And his face told me he wasn't buying it.
His grin, tinged with sarcasm, twisted into something sharper. He shook his head slowly, almost in disbelief, before leaning forward, his voice cutting through the cafe air like a blade: "So what you're telling me is that because of all this stress, you didn't have a few minutes - sorry, not even minutes, just seconds - to check in on your brother? To type a message? To ask how I was?"
Each word was laced with hurt, with anger, with the raw ache of someone who felt abandoned. His tone dripped with a bitterness I had never heard from him before, and it stung more than I cared to admit.
I tried to explain, fumbling: "It's not the way you're putting it. I was preoccupied. I missed replying to you, that's all…" My voice faltered, betraying the guilt I was trying so hard to suppress.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my eyes darting sideways. It suddenly felt as though every clink of a spoon, every scrape of a chair, every hushed laugh from nearby tables was directed at us.
Perhaps no one was paying us any attention, but paranoia is cruel - it convinced me that strangers were leaning into our words, savoring the unraveling of a sibling bond over cappuccinos and croissants. And wasn't that the wicked irony? That our most private wounds were spilling into a public place, staged against the cozy backdrop of a neighborhood cafe where people came seeking warmth and comfort, while we sat across from each other breaking apart.