“By half an inch,” Noah added, rolling his eyes.
For illustrative purposes only
They were always different.
Liam was fire—stubborn, quick-witted, always ready to challenge.
Noah was steady—thoughtful, quiet, the one who held everything together.
We had our routines: Friday movie nights, pancakes before tests, and always a hug before leaving the house—even when they pretended to hate it.
When they got into the dual-enrollment program, I sat in my car after orientation and cried until my vision blurred.
We had made it.
Through everything—every sacrifice, every late night, every skipped meal.
We had made it.
Until that Tuesday.
The day everything shattered.
It was stormy that afternoon—the kind of storm where the sky hangs low and heavy, and the wind claws at the windows.
I came home from a double shift at the diner, soaked through, my socks squishing inside my shoes. My bones ached from the cold.
All I wanted was dry clothes and hot tea.
Instead, I found silence.
Not the usual background sounds—no music from Noah’s room, no microwave beeping from something Liam forgot.
Just silence.
Heavy. Wrong.
They were sitting on the couch.
Side by side.
Still.
Rigid.
Hands folded like they were preparing for something terrible.
“Noah? Liam? What’s wrong?”
My voice felt too loud in the quiet.
I dropped my keys and stepped forward.
“What’s going on? Did something happen at the program? Are you—”
