Rin can't stand anything that reminds him of Sae. They're like thorns piercing through him—constant reminders scattered everywhere.
The sight or sound of seagulls instantly puts him in a bad mood. He avoids lingering outside his brother's old room. He stays away from music, manga, and movies he remembers Sae liking. He doesn't eat french fries—not because he dislikes them, but because his mind always conjures up the memory of Nii-chan's look of disgust whenever he does.
Sometimes, he stares at himself in the mirror a little longer than he should. He sees his turquoise eyes, his long lashes, the familiar lines of his face—and he hates it. He hates seeing Sae. It isn't always like that. He doesn't always see him first. But when he does, it's all he can see.
Rin hates snowy days. They're among the few days he skips training and stays home. Because all he feels is cold—a biting cold that sinks into his bones, leaving him desperate for a warmth that will never return.
Whenever he hears people praising Sae—for another victory, another achievement—that corrosive resentment comes rushing back. He feels the distance between them widen. He feels the urge to defeat his brother. But something else blooms in his chest, too: a quiet pride, the voice of the little boy Rin was never able to kill.
"Nii-chan is amazing."
Maybe the things that reminded him of Sae wouldn't hurt so much if Rin only hated him.
But that was the problem.
Love doesn't work that way.
