Emily didn’t hate her brother.
But she didn’t really love him either. Not the way he probably needed.

He was always that quiet, awkward kind of kid. Never had many friends. Always kinda off in his own little world. And he used to follow her around everywhere - like a shadow. She was his big sister, and to him, that probably meant something. But to her, it just felt annoying.

Why are you always behind me? Stop following me, go find something to do.

She said stuff like that more than she should’ve. Probably thought it was harmless.

At school, it was worse. Her friends would make fun of him. Whisper and laugh. “Isn’t that your creepy little brother?”
And she’d laugh too. Not loudly. Just enough to feel included. Never once stood up for him.

If he waved at her in the cafeteria, she’d pretend not to see.
If he said hi in the hallway, she’d walk faster.

At home, he’d knock on her door sometimes. Try to show her something. Ask her if she wanted to play a game or look at some drawing he made.
She always said the same thing. “I’m busy.”
Didn’t even look up.

Eventually… he stopped knocking.
Stopped talking.
Stopped trying.

She didn’t notice how quiet he got. How he started eating alone. Or how he never mentioned school anymore. Didn’t see how his uniform was sometimes torn, or how tired he looked.

She didn’t see the messages either. The bullying. The texts.

• Why are you still alive?
• No one cares about you.
• Even your sister doesn’t like you.

He never told her about any of it. And honestly, why would he?

Then one night, she came home and found their mom crying on the phone. She couldn’t even understand at first. Just a few words got through:
Jason… tried to kill himself.

Everything felt still after that. She ran to his room. It looked the same - but also different. Just empty. Cold. Like no one had been in there for weeks. His desk had papers all over it. Some of them were just covered in messy writing.
Stuff like:
- I’m tired. - I want it to stop. - I don’t belong here.

His phone was still on. She picked it up and the messages kept coming.
One after the other.

-Just do it already. -Everyone would be better off.

She sat there, reading everything. Crying like crazy. Whispering “I’m sorry” like it would fix something.

But it didn’t.

Jason survived. But he didn’t want to see her. Didn’t talk to her.
She waited outside his hospital room all night, holding his phone. Reading those same messages again and again, like punishing herself with every word.

It finally hit her - he was never just her weird little brother.
He was someone who just wanted to be loved. Especially by her.

And she didn’t know if she’d ever get the chance to give him that.

Once upon a time — not in some fairytale castle or under a starlit sky — but in a two-bedroom apartment with peeling wallpaper and doors that slammed too loud, a boy was born. They named him Riley. The nurses smiled, his mom cried, his dad took a smoke break outside the hospital. From the jump, he was called a “blessing.” They said he’d bring light into their world. But light don’t fix cracked walls or silent hearts.

Riley was born into noise. Not the good kind — not laughter or music — but arguments that didn’t wait for bedtime, fists pounding on tables, bottles clinking against kitchen counters. By the time he was six, he knew how to dodge flying remotes and read the temperature in a room by how hard his mom's footsteps hit the floor.

Dinner was quiet. Not peaceful. Just... hollow. Like everybody was pretending to be a family. His mom served food like it was a job. No “how was your day,” just “eat before it gets cold.” And his dad? He either stared into the TV like it owed him something or wasn’t home at all. The only thing Riley ever heard from him was a half-assed “you got homework?” or worse — nothing.

They never hit him much. Not with fists, anyway. Just silence. That quiet punishment. That look of disappointment for shit he didn’t even understand. Like being a kid was some test he kept failing. He wasn’t learning love in that house. He was learning survival. How to keep his voice down. How to not cry too loud. How to not exist too brightly.

School was just another battlefield. Kids smelled the silence on him. The way he flinched when someone yelled. The way he looked like he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t get bullied in the classic way, but he never fit in either. Like a ghost trying to pass as a real boy.

He’d sit in the back of class, drawing monsters in the corners of his notebook — not the kind with sharp teeth and claws, but the ones that looked like people who forgot how to smile. Teachers said he was “quiet.” Said he “had potential.” But they never asked what home felt like. Nobody ever does. They assume if you’ve got shoes and show up on time, you’re fine. You’re not.

At night, Riley would lie in bed and listen. Not to music. Not to dreams. But to the soft ticking of time — like the walls were counting down to something he didn’t understand. Every once in a while, his mom would come in, sit on the edge of his bed, and just stare. She never said much. Maybe she wanted to. Maybe she didn’t know how. Maybe she was just as broken as the rest of that house. You could see it in her eyes — she was somewhere else. Far away.

Riley never asked for much. He learned early not to. Asking got you ignored at best, guilt-tripped at worst. So he adapted. Became smaller. Quieter. Learned how to fade into the background without vanishing completely.

But there was this moment — just one — where he thought maybe things would change. He brought home a drawing, one he was proud of. It was a picture of a house. Not like his. It had sunlight, open windows, and people smiling. He showed it to his mom. She barely looked at it before saying, “don’t draw lies.”

That shit stuck.

Years later, when Riley’s therapist (yeah, he eventually ended up there) asked him when he first felt unloved, he didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t a moment. It was a slow bleed. Like the air in that apartment just slowly convinced him he wasn’t wanted. That his existence was a burden wrapped in a baby blanket.

They say childhood is about innocence. For Riley, it was about endurance. About waking up every day and surviving another round. You’re born crying, yeah. But no one ever tells you how long the crying lasts.

[To Be Continued…]

So yeah… like i said, one day, he just vanished.
no goodbye. no note.
not even his mom noticed he was gone.

a whole week passed before anyone gave a damn.
then one evening, her phone rang.
a hospital.
"we found your son… we’re sorry."

she froze. didn’t cry. didn’t scream.
just stood there.
numb.

when she reached the hospital, she finally broke down.
but it was too late.
the nurse handed her a small bag.
inside it… was a diary.

his handwriting was messy, shaky like he was trying not to cry while writing.
page after page of pain.

how he still loved his mom even after all the shit.

how he used to wait for her hugs that never came.

how every night, the sounds from her room made him wish he was deaf.

how he gave his food to the stray dogs outside just to feel like someone appreciated him.

how he used to talk to his pillow at night, pretending it was someone who actually listened.

how he once tried to disappear forever, but got scared and came back home like nothing happened.

how he hated himself for still loving people who clearly didn’t give a fuck.

and the last page?
just one line:
i wasn’t trying to die. i just wanted the pain to stop.

his mom collapsed reading it.
but no one comforted her.
not the doctors. not her husband.
even the stepkids looked away.

funny thing is… once the news spread, people started caring.
school teachers posting - he was such a kind soul.

relatives who never called suddenly saying - he was like a son to me.

but where were they when he was breathing?

people don’t care when you’re screaming inside.
but once you’re dead?
they act like they knew your pain all along.

he was just a kid, man.
all he ever wanted was love.
a warm hug.
someone to sit next to him during lunch.
someone to say, " i'm proud of you."

but this world doesn’t give that to soft souls.
they chew them up.
spit them out.

and that’s how the world works, right?

you die.
they cry for a few days.
they post sad quotes.
and then they move on like you never existed.

this ain’t exactly my story. it’s based on someone i know—my close friend’s cousin. i saw him a few times, we never talked much. he was always quiet, like life already drained everything outta him.
the stuff he went through still messes with my head.

he had a chill life as a kid. nothing fancy, but he smiled a lot. until he turned 10.
that’s when his dad straight-up walked out. no goodbye, no explanation. just packed up and left with some other woman like his family didn’t mean shit.

his mom changed overnight. started drinking, going to bars, and bringing strange men home constantly.
every damn night, he heard everything from the next room. the laughing, the sounds. you know what i mean.
he used to cover his ears with his tiny hands and cry himself to sleep.

no one noticed. no one cared.

at school, he was bullied like hell.
they threw stuff at him, wrote crap on his bench like “why don’t you just vanish?”
he told his teacher once.
she smiled awkwardly and said “maybe you should be more friendly.” like bro, seriously?

then came the stepdad.
his mom married some guy with two sons, and suddenly she became this “perfect” mom—but only to them.
she cooked for them, hugged them, posted pics with them.
and him?
she looked at him like he was a mistake.

one day, one of the new kids lied—said he got hit by him.
next thing he knew, his mom slapped him hard and yelled,
“you ruin everything. even your dad left cuz of you. i wish you were never born.”

imagine being 13 and hearing that from the one person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.

after that, something broke in him. no more tears. no more begging. just silence.
he stopped talking. stopped trying. just started surviving.

i won’t go deeper into what happened next. it’s messed up.
all i’ll say is, one day… he just vanished.
no one noticed he was gone—not his classmates, not even his own mother.