Desmond didn't leave that night.

He probably assumed I was fast asleep when he began to murmur to the dark, his voice low and ragged.

"The truth is, I’ve liked you for a long time. Longer than you ever liked me."

He sighed, a heavy, jagged sound in the silence. "But then Mom and Dad stepped in, and everything went sour. You know how they are—suffocating."

"They had to control everything. My career, my marriage, my entire life."

"So, from the moment we said 'I do,' I told myself this was just a play. I wanted this marriage—the one they were so proud of—to be rotten to the core. I thought if I ruined it, I’d be the one who won."

"But the biggest mistake I ever made wasn't rebelling against them," he whispered, his throat tightening until he could barely speak. "It was losing you in the crossfire."

Desmond choked on his own words, unable to continue.

I turned over, careful to make the movement look sluggish and unbothered. I kept my back to him. I couldn't let him see the tears tracing lines into my pillow.

He could never be anything more than a brother to me.

***

Dr. Duncan and his supervisor finally cleared me for discharge.

Desmond refused to accept it.

I remembered everyone—the nurses, the orderlies, the doctors—but when it came to him, I only had one name.

"Brother."

Desmond gripped my hands, his knuckles white, his eyes desperate. "Is that all, Serenity? Think. Do you remember who I am?"

"Brother, you’re my brother."

He leaned in, his voice trembling. "And what else? Think back."

I looked at him and smiled—a distant, vacant thing.

"I remember when I was ten. A pack of stray dogs chased me, and I was so terrified I couldn't stop screaming as I scrambled up the stairs. You were there. You pulled me behind you, your hands shaking, but you shielded me until the end."

"And I remember when I had that upset stomach, and I wouldn't touch my medicine. You spent hours over a stove, simmering warm, spiced cider for me. It was tart and sweet—the best thing I’ve ever tasted."

I tilted my head, looking at him with genuine curiosity. "Brother, I’ve always wanted to ask... why was your cider always better than anyone else's?"

This wasn't the answer he wanted.

The flicker of hope in Desmond’s eyes died instantly.

He managed to keep a tight, practiced smile for me, but when he stepped out to speak with Dr. Duncan, I saw his shoulders slump and his eyes go raw and red.

Dr. Duncan explained it to me later, his tone clinical and detached. "The human brain is a complex, precise instrument. Sometimes, when a memory is too traumatic, the mind chooses to excise it entirely."

"It could still be temporary," Dr. Duncan added, though he didn't sound convinced.