My name is Sai.
I wasn't raised to expect much, and maybe that's why I always notice small things — how people avoid eye contact when they're tired of a conversation, how someone sighs a little too long when they're hiding stress, how a single warm cup of tea can feel like affection if given at the right moment.
I grew up in a middle-class family. The kind where love isn't always spoken, but it's served with food, tucked into freshly ironed uniforms, or hidden in a quiet pat on the shoulder after you come second in class instead of first.
My father was a government officer — quiet, patient, respectful.
He never raised his voice, but I could feel when it cracked from inside.
My mother is a housewife. She walks faster than she talks and folds every piece of clothing like she's packing love into it.
She cares deeply — too deeply sometimes — and worries in silence, like most mothers do.
And then there's my brother — older, softer, and a little different from the world around him.
He was never officially labeled, but anyone who met him could see he didn't respond the way others did. He was somewhere between childlike and thoughtful, sensitive to noises, easily overwhelmed, and impossibly sweet.
Everyone loved him — and that's exactly where my silence began.
---
I was never unloved. Let me make that clear.
But love in our house came in levels — and mine always felt like the second tier.
If he was sick, I had to stay quiet.
If he cried, I had to wait.
If he needed help, mine could wait until later.
No one said it out loud, but the message was there:
> "You're stronger, Sai. You can manage."
And so I did.
I learned to make myself smaller.
I learned to cheer people up instead of asking to be cheered.
I learned to solve things alone — emotions, exams, doubts, dreams.
I became the smiling one. The good one. The helpful one.
And somewhere in between, I forgot what it felt like to be seen first.
---
I finished school with good grades — not brilliant, not terrible — just good.
I had one close friend who felt like my safe place, but she drifted away after joining work early.
I wanted to do something that felt useful — so I started a secretarial course, thinking maybe that would lead to something stable. But even that fell apart halfway.
She left. I stayed. And eventually, I followed her into work just to stay afloat.
But I didn't complain.
Because complaining never suited me. And besides, who would listen?
---
What did I want from life?
I'm still figuring that out.
But I know this: I've always longed for something soft.
Not dramatic. Not perfect. Just… safe.
Someone who would sit with me in silence without expecting me to talk.
Someone who wouldn't ask me to change tone or pace.
Someone who'd say,
> "You don't have to be strong right now. I'm here."
That kind of love.
Not loud. Not cinematic.
Just quiet enough to hear my heartbeat and still want to stay.
---
But at that time — when this story began — I didn't know if people like that existed.
And I certainly didn't know he lived just a wall away.