I killed my brother twice before anyone believed I knew how to hold a life together. The first time, I was elbow-deep in his chest, counting compressions while the anesthesiologist whispered numbers like a prayer we both knew math couldn’t answer. The second, years later, he sat across from me in a coffee shop and confessed how methodically he’d dismantled my future, piece by careful piece, to keep his own reflection untou… Continues…
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