TO HATE IS DIVINE

It started like it always did: Dorian, center stage, and me somewhere in the background.

I sat quietly at the family dinner table, watching as my brother commanded the conversation with ease. It didn't matter what the topic was—his latest work achievement, a story from his recent trip, or even some offhand joke about our childhood. Dorian had this way of pulling everyone in, like gravity.

"That's incredible, Dorian," our father said, beaming. "You've always had a way with people. You could charm your way out of anything."

I offered a tight smile, hoping no one noticed how stiff it felt. "Yeah, he's good at that," I muttered, but no one was paying attention.

By the time dessert was served, the knot in my chest had tightened. I sat there, invisible, as the same cycle played out yet again. No one asked about my day or my work. No one praised the long hours I'd put in last week or the small but solid success I'd managed with my latest campaign.

Later that night, while helping our mother clear the dishes, I decided to test something.

"You know, Dorian's been working nonstop lately," I said, trying to sound casual. "I hope he's not pushing himself too hard."

She paused, glancing over at me. "Oh? Has he said anything to you about that?"

"No, but you know how he is," I said with a shrug. "Always juggling a thousand things at once. I just hope he's not spreading himself too thin."

She frowned slightly, a flicker of concern crossing her face. "Hmm. Maybe I should check in with him."

I felt a strange, guilty satisfaction as I dried the last plate. It wasn't much, but it was something—a small crack in the unshakable image of Dorian's perfection.

Over the next few weeks, I leaned into this newfound tactic. At another family gathering, I dropped another subtle comment: "Dorian seemed distracted when we talked the other day. Probably just tired, but it's not like him."

The results were subtle, almost imperceptible, but they were there. Our father, normally so effusive in his praise, started adding little qualifiers. "Dorian's doing great, though I hope he's not overloading himself," he said one evening.

It wasn't enough to change the way the world saw him, not yet, but it was enough to keep me going.

A few weeks later, Dorian invited me to join him and some friends at a rooftop bar downtown. I almost said no, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see the people who orbited him so effortlessly, who fed into the endless cycle of adoration that seemed to define his life.

The place was exactly what I expected—sleek, buzzing with energy, and filled with people who looked like they belonged. Dorian fit right in, of course.

"Leo, glad you could make it," he said, clapping me on the back. "Come meet everyone."

He introduced me to his friends, a mix of polished young professionals and socialites who seemed as magnetic as he was. They greeted me politely, but it was clear I was an accessory in their evening, a footnote to Dorian's main event.

"So, you're Dorian's brother," one of them said, smiling. "He's talked about you before."

"Good things, I hope," I replied, forcing a chuckle.

"Oh, of course," they said, but the conversation quickly shifted back to Dorian.

I watched as he worked the room, effortlessly pulling everyone into his orbit. They laughed at his jokes, hung on his every word, and showered him with compliments.

"Dorian, you're the only one who could've closed that deal," one of them said, raising their glass in a mock toast.

"It's not about me," Dorian replied with a modest shrug, though the grin on his face told a different story.

I stayed on the fringes of the group, nursing a drink and pretending I didn't care. But I did care. I cared too much.

To them, I was just "Dorian's quiet brother," a title that felt like a scar I couldn't hide. I wasn't interesting or charming or magnetic. I was the guy they politely acknowledged before turning their attention back to the real star of the evening.

As the night went on, I found myself studying Dorian and his friends, dissecting their interactions like a scientist examining a specimen.

They didn't just like him—they revered him. Every laugh, every compliment, every glance was a reminder of how easily he captured people's attention. It wasn't just charisma; it was something deeper, something I couldn't fake no matter how hard I tried.

I watched the way his friends hung on his every word, the way their faces lit up when he spoke. It wasn't just admiration—it was worship.

The bitterness in my chest grew heavier with each passing minute.

At one point, someone turned to me again, asking, "So, Leonard, what do you do?"

"I'm in marketing," I replied, keeping my tone light.

"Marketing, huh? That's cool," they said, nodding politely before shifting their attention back to Dorian.

It was like I didn't exist.

By the end of the night, I was exhausted—not from socializing, but from the constant effort of pretending it didn't bother me. I excused myself and stepped out onto the balcony, needing a moment to breathe.

The city stretched out before me, its lights glittering against the dark sky. Normally, the view would've calmed me, but tonight it felt suffocating.

On the ride home, I replayed the evening in my head. The laughter, the admiration, the way everyone seemed to orbit around Dorian—it all blended into a maddening loop.

But amidst the bitterness, a new thought took root. For the first time, I realized I didn't have to stay invisible. I didn't have to accept being the shadow.

I had already seen the power of planting doubt, of shifting people's perception just enough to create cracks in the perfect image. It wasn't much, but it was something—a small way to tip the balance in my favor.

When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.

"I'll make them notice me," I whispered, my voice steady and low. "One way or another."

And as I stared at my reflection, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in years: control.