I am on a train, once again, as I always am. Last night I found out that your brother had died. Not ‘has’ died. Your brother had died just before we met and you never told me. Your brother had died just before we met and I never even knew you had a brother. And it’s not that we never talked about the darker, heavier things - because every now and then, you‘d open up just an inch and reveal the soft, vulnerable flesh you usually kept sealed but before I had a chance to touch it or even properly look at it, you’d snap yourself shut again. ‘Everyone would be better off without me’ you said so matter-of-factly one afternoon and as soon as I disagreed, you got annoyed, as though I was trying to negate a universal truth. It‘s been years since the last time we spoke but I still check on your every now and then, to make sure you‘re still alive.
I think I understand you better now than I did back then. Your brother had died not even four months before we met and I can’t stop crying when I think about how you never talked about it, how none of your friends ever came to visit you, not even your dad. The day before the funeral you sent me photos of your mum’s plants and I didn’t even know you had gone home for a funeral. The day we had our strange falling out, when you simultaneously tried to be as close to me and far away from me as possible, when I couldn’t figure out what was happening, was the first anniversary of his passing. The day we ran into each other again two years later and you were cold and smug was his birthday. And all along I had no clue at all. I always knew there was a sadness that seemed inherent to you, inextricably entangled with who you are, but I assumed it was because of everything else. I never knew your younger brother, didn’t even know he had existed until yesterday and now I can’t stop crying for him and for you. I am on a train once again and as much as I hate crying in public, crying in front of anyone, I keep crying for you.
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