Lucas is in the kitchen when I come down. Hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, earphones half in, pouring cereal like it's the most casual thing in the world.
It's 9 p.m.
No one eats cereal at 9 p.m. unless something is wrong.
He glances up when I step in, then back at his bowl. "Hey."
"Hey."
I hover by the fridge, unsure if I'm allowed to be in the same room as him without an emotional weapon check.
He doesn't say anything else, just slides the cereal box over toward me like we're five and sharing toys again.
I sit at the counter and grab a spoon. For a moment, it's quiet—almost peaceful. Just us and the faint hum of the fridge, and the sound of spoons clinking against ceramic.
"I used to do this a lot," he says finally. "Late-night cereal. Back when we were both still in middle school. You'd sneak downstairs too, and we'd watch cartoons like it was a secret."
I smile faintly, memory tugging at the corner of my brain. "You used to put sugar on already sugary cereal."
"Still do."
A beat.
Then: "You were quiet back then too. But different quiet."
I pause. "What do you mean?"
He shrugs, but it's not a careless shrug—it's the kind that hides a hundred unsaid things. "I dunno. You were quieter in a dreamy way. Now it feels like you're quiet so people don't ask questions."
I stare at him, cereal forgotten. "You think I'm hiding?"
"I think you're hurting."
I swallow hard.
For a second—for one whole second—I consider letting it go. Saying thanks, brushing it off, exiting gracefully.
But I don't.
Because the silence between us has grown too loud to ignore.
"You don't get to say that," I say, voice low.
Lucas blinks. "Say what?"
"That I'm hurting. That I've changed. You haven't been here, Lucas. You left."
His jaw tightens. "I left for school."
"You left me."
It's out before I can stop it.
The silence that follows is thick.
Lucas sets his spoon down, careful, like anything louder might set me off.
"You think I wanted to leave you with all this?"
"No," I snap, "I think you wanted to leave and didn't care what you left me with."
"Nico—"
"Don't. Don't even try to 'Nico' me, it's always been that way, right from the moment you entered high school, I just tried to believe it wasn't your fault, tried to believe that you were genuinely busy and would spend time with me when you weren't," I say, standing now. "But now I see, it wasn't about me, it was just about you, you being nice to me was just a formality for you, you were the golden boy, you always were. You got to be smart and popular and straight and perfect. You had friends, freedom, Mom and Dad bragging about you like you were some kind of prodigy. And I got to be your weird little brother with 'a lot of feelings,' the one you ditched the moment you were able to without someone calling it out"
Lucas looks stunned. Like I smacked him with every word.
"You got up, got out and left" I whisper. "And now you're back, and suddenly you care again? You don't get to swoop in and have opinions about my life, about who I like and who likes me, about my feelings, when you weren't here for the part where I learned to live for me and not to be like you."
"I never stopped caring."
"You didn't bother trying in the first place either."
Silence again. But this one is shattered silence. Cracked. Permanent.
Lucas finally speaks, voice barely audible. "I just didn't know how to help you. I still don't."
"Then maybe don't pretend like you did."
I walk out before he can answer.
This time, I don't slam the door.
I don't have to.
The damage is already done.