“You’re not scary at all,” I told him once.
Because he moves like he’s still small. He folds himself into chairs gently, never slams a door, speaks in a murmur that forces you to lean in. When we watch TV, he curls up like a cat on the end of the sofa, knees to his chest, somehow taking up less space than me. uchi no otouto maji de dekain dakedo mi ni
But the strange thing is—mi ni tsukanai. You don’t notice it right away. “You’re not scary at all,” I told him once
That’s the thing about my little brother. He’s huge—absolutely, undeniably dekai . But the part that matters, the part that fills a room? That’s not his height. When we watch TV, he curls up like
I’d measure him against the doorframe every birthday, pencil marks climbing higher each year—first my shoulder, then my ear, then the top of my head. By middle school, he already looked down on me. By high school, he had to duck under every lintel in our grandparents’ old house.