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The physics of emotional distance is a strange thing. We often imagine that moving away from someone requires miles of geography or a cataclysmic explosion of anger, but in reality, the greatest chasms are forged in silence. My brother and I were close enough to remember the specific cadence of each other’s laughter, yet distant enough to spend years pretending that our shared history was a closed book. Our fallout wasn’t cinematic; there were no shattered plates or dramatic ultimatums delivered in the rain. It was a slow erosion—a single conversation where words were sharpened into weapons, a series of misunderstandings that went uncorrected, and a pride that eventually fossilized into a permanent state of estrangement.
I convinced myself that the silence was a form of self-respect. I adopted the modern philosophy that toxic ties, even those bound by blood, should be severed for the sake of one’s mental peace. Over time, the absence of his voice stopped feeling like a missing limb and started feeling like a scar—noticeable if I looked for it, but otherwise just part of the landscape. I built a life that had no room for him, a carefully curated existence where birthdays were celebrated without his snide humor and holidays were trimmed down to a manageable, quiet circle. I called this peace, but in the low light of a winter evening, I suspect I knew it was merely a well-maintained void.
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