Chapter 7: A Quiet Weight
Lazy ass mofo
The text message came late at night, just as I was settling into bed.
Marcus: "Hey, you free tomorrow? Let's grab a drink. Need to talk."
I didn't need to ask what it was about. Marcus had been giving me that concerned, slightly judgmental look for weeks now. Still, I owed him the benefit of the doubt, so I agreed.
The next evening, we met at our usual spot—a dimly lit pub tucked into a corner of the city where no one really cared who you were or what you did. Marcus was already there, sitting at the bar with a beer in hand.
"You look like you've been dragged through hell," he said as I slid onto the stool beside him.
"Thanks," I replied dryly. "Nice to see you too."
He didn't waste time getting to the point. "I've noticed you've been… off lately. Like you're carrying something heavy. You want to tell me what's going on?"
I took a sip of my drink, stalling. "It's nothing."
"Don't give me that," Marcus said, his tone sharper now. "I've known you too long for you to brush me off like that. This is about Dorian, isn't it?"
I stiffened, the way I always did when someone brought up my brother. "What about him?"
Marcus sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Leo, you're letting this thing with Dorian eat you alive. I get it—he's got the charm, the looks, the career, whatever. But you've got your own thing. You're smart, hardworking, loyal. You don't need to compete with him."
I didn't respond right away. What was I supposed to say? That loyalty and hard work didn't count for much when no one noticed? That being smart wasn't enough to get people to remember you?
Marcus seemed to sense my reluctance. "Look, all I'm saying is, you don't have to measure yourself against him. Focus on your own goals. Build your own thing. People will notice eventually."
I forced a smile. "Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it."
But inwardly, I dismissed his words. Marcus didn't understand. He didn't have a brother like Dorian—someone who overshadowed every achievement and left nothing for you to claim as your own.
A week later, Clara invited me over for coffee. She had that gentle, no-nonsense way of addressing things that made it hard to dodge her questions.
We sat on her balcony, the sun casting long shadows over the city skyline.
"You've been quiet lately," she began, stirring her tea.
"Just busy," I lied.
Clara wasn't buying it. "Leo, I know you better than that. This is about Dorian, isn't it?"
"Why does everyone keep assuming that?" I snapped, more sharply than I intended.
She raised an eyebrow. "Because it's obvious. You get this look on your face every time his name comes up, like you're carrying a grudge."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's not a grudge. It's… complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it," she said. "Leo, you're a great guy. You've got your own strengths, your own path. Resenting Dorian isn't going to help you get where you want to be."
"And where is that, exactly?" I shot back. "Because no matter what I do, it's never enough. Not for our parents, not for anyone else."
Clara reached out, placing a hand on mine. "That's not true, and you know it. You don't need to outshine him. You just need to focus on being the best version of yourself."
Her words were kind, but they felt hollow. She didn't understand either.
Despite their best efforts, Marcus and Clara couldn't pull me out of the spiral I'd found myself in. If anything, their attempts to ground me only highlighted how far I'd drifted from the people around me.
Marcus's optimism felt naïve, and Clara's advice felt disconnected from the reality of my life. They saw potential in me, sure, but they didn't live with the constant comparisons, the endless reminders that I would always come second to Dorian.
Even so, I valued their loyalty. They were the only people who seemed to care enough to try.
But their words didn't change the resentment that continued to fester inside me. Every family dinner, every casual remark about how "amazing" Dorian was, every instance where someone failed to notice my efforts—it all added fuel to the fire.
I found myself withdrawing more and more, retreating to the quiet of my apartment where I didn't have to see or hear about Dorian.
But even in the silence, he was there.
One night, I sat alone in my room, staring at a photo on my desk. It was an old picture of me and Dorian as kids, taken on a summer vacation years ago. We were grinning at the camera, our arms slung around each other like we didn't have a care in the world.
Back then, things had been simpler. We were just two brothers, equals in every way that mattered.
But now? That bond felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by everything that had come between us.
I picked up the photo, tracing the edges of the frame with my thumb. The image was meant to symbolize something good, something pure. But all I could see was a reminder of what I'd lost—and what I was still losing, day by day.
"I'll make them see me," I whispered to the empty room once again, my voice steady and low. "One way or another."
And as I set the photo back on the desk, I felt the weight of my resolve settle over me. This wasn't just about Dorian anymore. It was about me—about reclaiming my identity, even if it meant tearing his down in the process.
Because if the world wasn't going to notice me on its own, I'd make sure they had no choice.