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The story I told myself was neat, contained, and entirely unchallenged for three years. I was the person who moved on, the one who didn’t need the baggage of a complicated fraternal bond. But life has a way of mocking our most resolute narratives.
It happened on a Tuesday night in January, the kind of night where the air feels brittle enough to snap. I was driving home through a part of the city I rarely frequented, lost in the mundane rhythm of a podcast and the hum of the heater. Without warning, my car gave a singular, pathetic cough and lost all power. I coasted into a dark curb, the dashboard lights flickering out like dying embers. The silence that followed was immediate and terrifying.
The sensible choice was to call a tow truck. I pulled out my phone, my fingers hovering over the app for roadside assistance. But the cold was beginning to seep through the glass, and the estimated wait time was nearly two hours. I scrolled through my contacts, intending to call a friend, when my thumb paused over a name I had never quite found the heart to delete. I stared at it for a long time.
Every logical excuse I had polished over the years rose up to stop me. Don’t bother him. He probably won’t even answer. You’ll just make things awkward. You don’t need his help. I listened to those voices, weighed them against the biting chill in my toes, and then I ignored them. I pressed the call button before I could talk myself out of it.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
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