The House Was Asleep. Mostly. You could still hear the fridge hum its tired lullaby, and once in a while, a floorboard creaked like it had a secret to tell. I was wide awake, lying flat on my back, eyes locked on the bottom of my brother’s top bunk, letting my gaze crawl across the ceiling I knew too well. Same old water stain near the vent. Same crack that looked kind of like Texas if you squinted.

                And above me, Patrick—sprawled on top of the blanket instead of under it, wearing a hoodie with the hood up, headphones half-off, listening to The Doors on cassette. In my previous life, Patrick shaped my taste in music. I’d fallen in love with bands like The Doors, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin because of him.

                I didn’t think he knew I was awake, so when I heard his voice, it startled me.

                “Why’d you leave Oreos?” His voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.

                I rolled onto my side. “Because I remember what it felt like when no one did stuff like that for me.”

                He was quiet again. But he didn’t brush it off or mock it. That was new.

                “You’re different,” he muttered after a beat. “Not just smarter. It’s like… you see stuff now. Like people. And how you sometimes know when things are gonna happen. It’s weird.”

                I almost laughed. “I’ve always seen people. Just used to be too scared to do anything about it.”

                Patrick shifted, sitting up and rubbing his eyes like he was trying to scrub away whatever made him say that out loud. “I don’t get why you even care. About me. Or this place. You should be like everyone else—trying to get away from here.”

                “I did,” I said, before I could stop myself.

                He leaned down from the top bunk to stare at me. “What?”

                I sat up, pulling the blanket around my shoulders like some kind of makeshift shield.

                “I mean, I used to want that. Used to think running was the only way to not drown in it. But I’m trying something different now.”

                He studied me for a second, like he was trying to decode a message I wasn’t quite spelling out.

                Then, softer than I expected, he said, “It’s not your job to fix everything.”

                “I know,” I whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop showing up.”

                Patrick let out a breath—sharp and shaky. “You sound like Grandma.”

                “Good,” I said. “She’s usually right.”

                We sat in silence for a bit. Not the awkward kind. The kind that feels like something just shifted in the atmosphere. Like maybe we weren’t alone in our own little lifeboats anymore.

                He hopped down from the top bunk and wandered over to one of the books I’d been reading. Flipped it open, then closed it again. Then, out of nowhere, he tossed a sock at me. It smelled like death and betrayal.

                “Okay, that’s fair,” I said, flinging it back. “But seriously. Wash that.”

                He smirked. Just a little. But it was real.

                And I held onto that. Because sometimes, a smirk is the only breadcrumb you get to know someone’s still there. Still reachable. Still worth saving.

                Patrick yawned and stretched like he hadn’t slept in three days. He probably hadn’t. The guy had more shadows under his eyes than the basement.

                “You good if I turn out the light?” he asked, jerking a thumb.

                “Yeah, I’m good,” I said, laying back on my pillow.

                He grunted something like acknowledgment, then climbed the ladder with the grace of a tired jungle cat. The whole bed creaked like it might give out, and for a second, I imagined myself crushed to death by the weight of teenage angst. The thought of dying and starting over at two years old again low-key terrified me. More so because I didn’t know the rules—if there were rules. I didn’t know if dying meant the end, or if I’d just get reset like a cursed video game. Or worse—sent back to my old life, which now felt like a distant memory.

                “Don’t die up there,” I mumbled.

                “No promises,” he said through a yawn.

                We lay there in the dark for a minute, listening to the slow whirr of the box fan in the corner. The same one that made that little click-click every third rotation.

                Then, from above, his voice dropped again.

“Do you… remember stuff from when we were younger?”

                I blinked at the underside of his mattress. “Yeah. Some of it.” I lied, because I remembered everything now.

                “‘Cause sometimes you talk like… I dunno. Like you’ve been through more than you should’ve.”

                I stayed quiet, fingers tracing little spirals into my blanket.

                “It’s weird,” he added. “You say stuff like, ‘This too shall pass,’ or ‘You gotta meet people where they are.’ Like you’re some tired old therapist or something. Next thing I know, I’m gonna catch you making yourself coffee.”

                I snorted. “I am tired. And I like the smell of coffee. Hate the taste.”

                He chuckled. Then silence again.

                I waited, wondering if he’d drift off—but then he said something I hadn’t expected.

                “You said earlier you’re not trying to fix anything.” A pause. “But it feels like you are.”

                I hesitated. “I’m trying to remind you you’re worth more than you know. And more talented than you think. I mean, if you ever just slow down for like, a minute or two. You don’t always have to stay with Grandma Agnes or crash at friends’ places. I’m here. And we’re brothers. That should mean something.”

                For a long moment, there was nothing but the buzz of the fan and the soft creaks of the bed above me.

                Then, quietly, like he was afraid saying it too loud would undo it:

                “I missed this. Us.”

                I felt something crack open in my chest. Not in a bad way. In a way that felt like sunlight getting through.

                “Me too.”

                He sighed. “Don’t get sappy on me.”

                “No promises.”

                A beat.

                Then he muttered, “You’re still weird.”

                “Yup.”

                “But like… the good kind.”

                I smiled into my pillow. “You too.”And just like that, something old began to stitch itself into something new.

                The fan kept clicking. The bed creaked again as he finally stilled. I closed my eyes, listening to the soft, even rhythm of my brother breathing above me.

We didn’t fix everything that night. But for the first time in this life—or the last—I felt the weight I’d been carrying get a little lighter than before. Patrick had always been smart. Even as kids, he was insightful, clever, incredibly talented, and strong-willed.

                So, in the quiet of the night, feeling my brother finally let his guard down, wrapped in a blanket and a second chance—I finally let myself sleep.