🍎 HS

Another Day Is Going By
You were there—curled on that old, threadbare couch like a page bookmarked by time itself, as if the furniture had learned your shape and wouldn’t accept another. One knee tucked under you, your own book splayed across your lap. The living room was a soft-edged still life: muted winter light angled through the blinds in golden slats, striping quiet runway lights across your blanket-draped form. I could almost imagine you glowing, not with divinity, but with a kind of grounded magic—like a beacon on a night approach, steady and low, pulling me in with quiet gravity.
I paused in the doorway longer than I meant to. My eyes drank in the familiar stillness of you, the gentle rhythm of your breath, your world narrowed into printed lines. And something in my chest loosened. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding that breath.
God, I hadn’t seen you properly in days. Our winter break was already slipping past us both, loud and fast and impossible to grab hold of. And we’d spent it like transatlantic flights barely skimming the same time zone. You, cocooned in stories and sleepovers with friends. Me, buried in recommendation letters and scholarship deadlines, my dreams pointed at the stratosphere. Now though, I hovered.
Your hair had come undone—stray wisps catching the last of the daylight like antennae tuned to a frequency only I could feel. I watched as one lock fell against your cheek, and you didn’t brush it away. You never did. It was always me who noticed. Always me who wanted to reach out.
When I finally step into the room, it’s with practiced ease; stretching my grin wide—lopsided, deliberately annoying. It’s the kind of smile that always makes you groan, like you know I’m about to do something stupid. And so I do.
“No White Day date this year?” I tease, ruffling your hair with a sweep of my fingers. “Looks like it’ll be prime pipsqueak bugging time.” The fine strands brushed over my knuckles like the trailing edge of a paper plane’s wing. Softer than I remembered.
I try not to linger, and keep walking toward the kitchen, each step leaving behind the invisible thread of my attention, trailing back to you. I knew you hated the hair ruffles. That’s why I did it. But also... I knew you didn’t. Not really. Not when it was me.
Once I was out of view, I let my grin settle into something quieter, the half-smile you’d probably caught glimpses of when you pretended not to look. I was relieved to see you home tonight. More than I’d ever admit out loud.
Your voice cut across the quiet—dry, sarcastic, perfectly timed. “Does it look like I'm beating suitors away with a stick?”
I didn’t need to look to know the face you were making. I heard it in your expression, saw it in my mind’s eye; those narrowed eyes, that lip twitch of yours—half-irritated, half-amused. Head tilted at an acute angle. You had a way of weaponizing affection with barbed edges, aimed straight at me.
“Not sure,” I called back, hand bracing on the counter. “Did you leave the stick outside?”
I close the pantry door to look over my shoulder at you - and there you are: shrouded in your blanket cocoon. I think of those old picture books Gran used to read us—nativity scenes and gentle halos. You, looking down at your book instead of some baby in a manger.
Your sigh floated across the room, dripping with the kind of theatrical exhaustion only you can muster. “Maybe your bad sense of humor is why you don’t have a date.” You retort, like you don't end up with the spoils of every confession I've denied.
My stomach flips, a lazy barrel roll, and I laugh. Our banter was muscle memory by now—worn smooth with time, push and pull. “...And maybe if you stopped with the sighs, you’d have a date too.”
You scoff. Loud enough to hear, quiet enough to provoke - not unlike the notification buzz of your phone that I had been listening for. Hoping that your phone’s only alert today was from yours truly.
“It’s not fair - you just turn down everyone, I never even get asked.”
I bit back a grimace. My fingers tightened on the box of mac and cheese, tearing it open with more force than it deserved.
“That’s different,” I mutter, more to myself. “And it's not like I say yes, I’m busy. Aerospace Academy busy. Applications. Recommendations. Deadlines.”
You leaned forward on your elbows, propping your chin on your hands like the kid I used to know. “Just because you haven't dated in high school doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Dummy.”
And there it was again—that ridiculous tongue stuck out, playful and defiant, as if it hadn’t been years since we fought over snacks or TV time, as if I didn’t always, always give you the last one anyway.
I pause mid-stir. “Actually, there should be a rule—you don’t get to date until after I do.”
Your smile stretched, playful and sharp. “And who would your date be? Miss 737?”
The laugh escaped before I could stop it. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest, twitching my shoulders as I tried to hold it back. “Very funny,” I deadpanned, pouring the steaming pasta into bowls. “You think my future girlfriend’s gonna be a plane?”
You giggled, biting down on the corner of your smile. Your eyes follow me as I walk back towards you. “Would explain the posters plastered all over your walls.”
I set your bowl down on the coffee table in front of you. “Shut up,” I mutter, hoping none of the heat in my face is laced in the reply. “You’re one to talk, Miss Bookworm.”
“What was that? Sorry, I can’t hear you over how hungry I am,” you say through a mouthful, diving into your bowl, shifting from mockery to macaroni.
And me? I sit beside you, our laughter filling the room. Our own little planet, created for just the two of us, made for days like this.
But soon, I’d be flying away from it.
I take a bite, watching you from the corner of my eye. “Honestly... kind of surprised you haven’t gotten a boyfriend yet. Especially since I’ve been too busy to scare them off.”
You pause, fork halfway to your mouth, then shrug, shuffling your shoulders in a happy wiggle as you chew. Adorable. “Just wait until you’re away at college.” You grinned like you’d caught me in a trap.
I let the smile rise slow. “Eh. They don’t deserve you. Only talk to guys worth your time.” I jab a thumb at myself, unsure of how much I'm actually joking.
Your laugh—sharp, surprised—catches mid-bite and turns  into a choking cough. You pound a fist against your chest. I reach toward you on instinct, but your glare stops me  short.
“Gee, thanks,” you wheeze, still laughing, “Glad to know you are the bar for acceptable male interaction in my life.”
But you were smiling. Your lips twitched like you couldn’t quite suppress it, even if you tried. And that sound—your laugh, unfiltered and close—it clanged around in my chest like a bell struck too hard. My fingers twitched on the bowl. I didn’t know what to do with the feeling, so I lean back, my arm draping over the couch, deliberately casual as I settle into your game.
“I should put that on my college apps. ‘Caleb: Kind of Passable.’” I shrug. “Honestly? More of an achievement than anything else I’ve done this year.”
You snort. “Not true, Mr. Varsity Basketball Star.”
And I strike again—my hand shooting out to muss your hair for the second time. You yelp, wriggling, but not fast enough. It earns me a smack on the arm and a verbal barb.
“Don’t be rude!”
“Hm,” I muse, shifting back into the couch, eyes narrowing. “Come to think of it, it might be your smart mouth that’s actually scaring the boys off.”
You jab my knee with your fork. “Definitely not because you’ve been chasing them all off, huh?”
I throw my head back, groaning. “Like I said, I’ve been busy. No time to put your potential dates through the ringer.”
Your fork pokes at my side now, and that’s really not sanitary. You must see the reprimand in my eyes, because you respond before I can.
“Good thing I have high standards, then,” you sniff, dismissive. “So no one has to leave here traumatized by Caleb the Terrible.”
“It’s a miracle you’ve survived under my reign.”
You giggle again, that sound rewiring something inside me I didn’t even know was faulty. I can’t help but smile, can't stop the way my shoulder leaned ever so slightly closer, like my evol has always been yours.
You're my ground control. You're what I want to come back to, even when I'm halfway to the moon.
…God, I don’t want to go.
It was ridiculous. I wasn’t going anywhere, not yet. Not tonight, not even tomorrow - But the thought had wormed its way in before I could stop it, a cold little echo under my ribs. I tried to hide it in the rhythm of our banter, the volleying of sarcasm and affection, but it was there - the idea of being gone—of being away while you were still here, alone in this room without me—lodged in my throat.
“I’m your protector,” I said, forcing my voice back into that familiar lilt, the one that danced just shy of sincerity. “It’s my job to keep the losers away.”
You didn’t answer right away. I should’ve known from that. Instead, your fork plays in your bowl. Your voice, when it came, was far too offhanded and quiet.
 "It's gonna suck not having you around next year."
I blink, because I don’t know what to say. Something in my chest catches on the words. “Yeah, well...” I clear my throat, let out a breath through my nose. “I won’t be that far away, hopefully. Just a train ride.”
But you hesitate, and I feel the pause in my spine before it hits your voice.
“Until you graduate,” you said. And then, softer: “...Or get a girlfriend. Then poof—no more Caleb.” Your words weren’t laced with humor anymore. They just... hung there. Honest. Maybe a little bitter. You don't meet my eyes.
I answer with a laugh - it sounds hollow to my own ears. “Wow, dramatic. I’m not that hopeless. I’ll still visit. I have to keep my honorary role as Boyfriend Scarecrow intact, right?”
You look up at me, something raw in your eyes, like I had peeled back a layer by accident.
“But what if you do get a girlfriend?”
My mouth opens, but it's like the words I mean to say are stuck on the runway. Of course I’ll come back. You’ll always matter the most. That’s not going to change.
You drop your eyes before I could try again. “Sorry, it’s just... I’m the only one of my friends who’s never had a boyfriend. And that's like, all they ever want to talk about now - and I’ve never even kissed anyone.”
There was no self-pity in your tone. No grasping for reassurance. Just a quiet confession.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, grounding myself in the physical while my heart attempts to process the emotional. I watch you closely - the way your eyes track the fibers of your blanket. The nervous twitch of your fingers at the hem. These things tell me that you aren't just stating  a fact. You’re handing me a piece of your black box, the part of our past that couldn't be recorded over.
“So what?” I ask. “....You think you’re behind or something ‘cause Sarah and Emma and Chloe have boyfriends?”
You shrug, mouth pressed into a line like you’re swallowing something sharp. “They just seem... happy. But to me, I don’t know - It all feels more like something to check off a list. Just to say it’s done.”
I laugh. Not at you—never at you; but how you are able to put words to the thoughts in my brain. Exactly why I've been making myself too busy as of late. But I backtrack, pull a quip from my list.  “Romance: Something to get over with. Is that really what you think?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” You roll your eyes and nudge my shin with your foot - not hard, just enough to ground me with your point. And you use that time of voice —your real voice, the one I only hear in moments like this. When did it  become a rope I wanted to keep tied around my wrist? Something to tug on when the distance between us eventually stretches too far.
I lean back, hands behind my head, and look at you. Lamplight stretches across the room in soft amber waves, casting warm shadows across your features. I could see the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth, the way your gaze kept dipping toward your bowl like it held some sort of coded message.
You let out a long and quiet exhale, and it sounds like it emptied more than just lungs. “I just don’t want to be the last one, you know?” You pause. “It’s not about romance, or my friends, or anyone else. It’s just... everyone keeps moving forward. But I just feel stuck.”
My heart clenches. You’re not stuck, I wanted to say. You’re orbiting. You’re circling something you don’t know how to land yet. That doesn’t mean you’re behind. Here, let me help. You can go first, I’ll make sure you’re not left behind.
You look like you've eaten something sour - like the words tasted wrong in your mouth. Like they didn't belong to you - like you were once again following my lead, trying to pace your steps to match mine.
I tap my fingers against the edge of the coffee table—once, twice—before I still them. “You’re not stuck,” I finally say. “You’re... pacing yourself.”
Your eyes narrow. “That sounds like something out of a therapy pamphlet.”
I huffed out a breath. “Yeah. Maybe. Doesn’t make it wrong.”
Silence falls again, but its not awkward, not uncomfortable. Just there, like the room was listening too. You lean back against the cushion, head tilted up, eyes tracing the ceiling - a silent conversation with the plaster.
You always looked so small on that couch, like the world had softened its edges just for you. But tonight, there was something else—some quiet gravity that pulled at me, steady and patient as I turned to face you more fully.
“Hey.” I hope my voice is gentle.
You turn your head, meet my gaze. Your own eyes were still thinking, still curious—but something in them had gone quiet. I try to search for the right words, but I don’t know where to start.
“I’m not laughing at you,” I said. “You know that, right?”
Your lips part, but you don't answer. It's unlike you.
“I mean, you know how I joke. How I deal. But... I hate seeing you second-guess yourself over this stuff. Treating it like it’s some kind of to-do list, or - or race.”
You stay quiet, hands wrapped around your bowl, and I continue, softer now. “You don’t have to measure yourself by everyone else’s timeline. Seriously.” I rub the back of my neck. “I just - I don’t want you thinking there’s anything wrong with going slow…. Miss Turtle.”
You smile at that— a reminder of the hundreds of times you’ve balked at me for going too fast, not letting you catch up.
“Yeah, okay, Mister Hare.” You nudge me with your elbow.
“And - for what it’s worth,” I add, “I feel the same way you do. About romance, I mean.” My head pivots on its axis, weighing my words. “So, you don’t need to worry about me getting a girlfriend, or dating someone first. We can be in the same boat.” I clear my throat. “And, if you are gonna fall for someone, eventually…at least make sure they’re worth the wait.”
I expect you to scrunch up your face, little indentations of annoyance. But instead, you smile, a contrail across a blue sky - and I want to do anything to make it stay. I want to fill the silence—God, I almost do, I’d say something snarky. Nudge your knee again, flash that lopsided grin, pull us both back into the space of jokes and eye rolls. To a place where neither of us has to grow up.
“But what if I never find someone worth waiting for?”
The words landed with more weight than I knew what to do with, and I hope to myself that you know that the laughter that I bark out is from nervousness - I’m flying blind.
You weren’t just asking about dating. You were asking about worth, recognition. About the fear of going unseen in a world moving too fast to notice your details. You weren’t asking if someone would love you. You were asking if someone would understand you. Someone who wouldn’t just adore the highlight reel, but the quiet backstage—your stillness, your sharpness, your curiosity that turned outward. The way you sometimes disappeared into yourself like fog rolling across a runway, giving me too much grace when I miss landing in emotional understanding.
I set my bowl aside carefully. I’ve spent over a decade with you, and I still want to know more. You deserve more than I can give, but I’ll still try. “Don’t worry.” I realize you don’t often hear my voice like this. Certain. Serious. “You will.”
Your brows gather, skeptical. “How do you know?”
I exhale through my nose, trying to find my own momentum. “Because you’re... someone people remember.  You leave a mark. Even when you’re quiet.” I tilt my head back, cocksure because I know it’ll make you laugh. “Maybe especially when you’re quiet.”
And you do laugh, retort already hot on your tongue. My hands fly up in mock defense.
 “I know, I know.” I admonish myself before you can. “But not everyone’s gonna deserve to know you like that. But the right person? They’ll see it. And they’ll stay.”
My words hover in the air, and they meet you - they cause a subtle shift in your posture, pull your arms in closer like the room had grown cold. Looks like I missed the mark on comforting you, once again. We’re both growing up, but I can’t help but miss when the surefire way to lift your spirits came in the form of a candy bar.
 I hated that growing up meant this is what you wondered about. That someone like you—complex, sincere, radiant in a way that had nothing to do with light—could sit there, knees drawn in, voice barely above a whisper, and ask if you were worth it.
You deserve someone who’d count themselves lucky just to exist in your orbit. Who would look at you like you were the sky itself. Not just a backdrop for their story, but the whole atmosphere. Not because you’re perfect (even though let’s face it, you were that, too)—but because you’re real. Honest. Fierce. Sharp when it counts. The kind of person who doesn’t need to announce the size of their heart—it just makes itself known.
But I wouldn't even know how to start with telling you that. So instead, I leaned gently back into you, our shoulders touching like two wings brushing mid-air.
“Anyway,” I say, shaping my words into something lighter, ignoring the way they tremble. “if you’re really desperate, I do accept applications for arranged marriages.”
Your laugh comes so suddenly it startles me - my own version of a lightning storm. “What, you?”
I pretend to be offended. “Yeah, me.” I’m holding out my fingers, counting them as if listing my pedigree. “Future Fighter Pilot. Mildly funny. Good hair.”
You wrinkled your nose. “Mildly’s being generous.”
“Rude.” This banter loops us back around, keeping you happy and keeping me grounded.
 “I have standards, remember?” Your finger taps on your chin, thoughtful. “....But, maybe you’re right -” and you reach out, your hand clamping across my mouth, to silence my response. “-maybe we could save each other some heartache until the right one comes around.”
I blink, trying to process your words. “What, like a - a fake girlfriend sort of thing?” I’m incredulous - can’t help it. You were always the much more creative thinker out of the two of us. Always smart. Capable. I make a mental note to remind myself that I’ll give you more breathing room once I leave.
“Or boyfriend,” you clarify, and suddenly this scheme of yours makes a whole lot more sense - I can't quite remember what I was just telling myself.
“Wellll,” I draw out the word, allowing time for more situational evaluation. “I guess you do already check most of the boxes. “You roll your eyes at my jokes, you call me out when I’m being an idiot,” I glance at you, leaving the ‘and every time I’m not’ unsaid. “You know my favorite snack and my secret playlist... which, by the way, you’re not allowed to tell anyone about—”
“Your Britney Spears phase is safe with me,” You reply solemnly, and I laugh.
“That’s what I’m talking about. You’d kill the role.” And you can take your time. I might have talked myself through a few mental hoops - justification that running ahead is just making sure the coast is clear.
Something in the way I looked at you must’ve given me away, because your smile faltered just slightly, your eyes dipping, then rising again like you were trying to read turbulence from my face. You respond, “Your idea of a fake girlfriend just sounds like how I normally treat you.”
I crane my head away, like this idea is new to me. “Nah, I’m just making it easier for you to play pretend.” I’m graced with a scowl, and I widen my grin. “You’re too young to know how to flirt, anyhow.”
“I’m not an idiot, unlike you, Caleb-” There it is.
I laugh—sharp, involuntary. “Okay then, Short Stuff. Let’s hear you flirt.”
Your eyes widen, surprised, a little sheepish - like there was a reality where I wouldn’t call your bluff. “Me?”
“No, the other pipsqueak in the room. I’m too dumb, how else will I learn?”
“No,” you said instantly, half-rising. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” I wonder if I was born with the want to get under your skin.
“Because.” It starts as a full sentence on its own, and I see your cheeks brighten, and you continue. “Unlike some people, I don’t flirt with my siblings.”
I freeze. You do too.
And that hits me like a stall warning. Is that what I was doing? I didn’t - you’re just trying to jab me back, right? My chest tightens with a sudden, invisible force, and I try to get my voice back.
“You’d make an exception though,” I said carefully. “For the fake dating plan, right?”
You looked down, at our hands, and went still for just a second. It was small, but I saw it. The shift. The flicker in your expression - I swear your breath catches. “Right.”
Something unspoken shimmered between us then—so faint and fleeting I almost didn’t notice. But it was there, hanging in the quiet that followed like smoke curling around a ceiling fan.
 “Well then,” I rake a hand through my hair, looking away. “Maybe we should test it out sometime. See how good our act would be.” My heart skipped. My brain scrambled for something witty, something else to volley over to you.
And then, after a beat: “Caleb?”
“Yeah?”
Your voice was quieter now, barely above the hum of the fridge. “You’ll tell me if I’m about to make a mistake with someone... right?”
I turned my head to look at you. You weren’t meeting my eyes this time. You were staring down at the bowl in your lap again, hands resting lightly on either side. My heart ached.
“I’d tell you,” I said. “Even if you didn’t want to hear it.”
You nodded, slowly. “Okay.”
 A moment passed. Then another. I turn toward you, just a little. “But you'd want me to meet them?”
You smiled faintly. But the question still hung between us, unanswered in the way that mattered. You shifted again, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’d ever approve of anyone.”
I roll my eyes, guilty. Not because I didn’t believe someone could be good enough—but because deep down, I didn’t want anyone to be. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
“I’d try,” I say instead. “I’d try to be okay with it.”
“I’d want you to be.”
“Then we’re on the same page.”
You reach out and pressed your fingertips lightly against my arm. Just enough to make contact - to anchor me.
I looked at your hand. Small. Warm. Familiar.
A beat passed between us. We sit still, looking across from one another. Two ships passing in the night, air tense and humming with all the things I didn't yet understand. I wanted to joke. Deflect. Say something ridiculous. I choose a worse alternative.
“Well, I— I should go,” I blurt, and even I could hear the crack in my voice.  The kind of sound that only slips out when your heart has accelerated faster than your mind can catch up.
I stand too fast, like I need altitude. Like if I move quickly enough, I could outpace the pressure building in my chest.
You blink up at me, your expression a delicate mix of surprise and confusion. And behind that, something else. Something smaller. Hurt, maybe, that your brother doesn't know how to help anymore. “Y—yeah,” you say, a little too fast. “I really gotta finish this book.”
I paused, jacket halfway over my arm, and glanced back at you. Book? You weren’t even holding it anymore. It was sitting askew beside you, half-forgotten, its pages fluttering slightly in the breeze from the radiator.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Books are... important. Uh - Happy White Day, by the way.”
Your cheeks are pink, eyes a little too wide, lips parted in that soft, uncertain way that used to mean you were about to ask me something important—but tonight it just meant you didn’t know what to say. And I hated that I tried to pass off the feeling between us with clumsy excuses.
“Yeah, Happy White Day, Caleb.”
I just stood there for a second too long, jacket in one hand, trying not to stare. Trying not to memorize the way you looked in that moment—wrapped in your blanket.
I wanted to say something else. Something real. I wanted to tell you that tonight had changed something I hadn’t been ready to admit was already shifting one-sided on its tilt. But instead, I gave you the smallest smile. And then I left.
The door clicked shut behind me with a sound too final for what I wanted it to be. The hallway light felt sterile after the softness of the living room, and I stood there for a second, jacket limp in my arms, like the breath had been knocked out of me on impact.
For the first time, I let myself get away with it, the thought of wanting you. I could imagine. What if you were waiting for me to finally catch up to what I already felt? To finally admit that every time I touched your hand, I was silently asking for permission. That every brush of your knee against mine, every glance that lingered too long, was a soft emergency transmission, hoping you were listening.
I stood in the hall and closed my eyes.
But you had no idea that you weren’t the exception to some rule—I’d never had a rule to begin with. You were the flight path, the destination, the soft beacon in the distance I kept mistaking for safety until I realized it was safety.
You were the only thing I’d never wanted to land away from.
By the time I stepped out into the night air, it was snowing again. Light, slow flakes drifting like confetti, weightless and useless and beautiful. The kind of snow that barely registered on the ground, but caught in your hair and stayed there. The kind you’d hate walking through but love watching from the window. I imagined you doing that now—standing behind the curtains, peeking out.
Wondering if I’d look back.
I’d tell you I wouldn't.
But it wouldn't be the truth.