Brief
Ari and her younger brother were left completely alone when she was 15 and he was 11 or 12. There were no relatives—no distant aunts, no second cousins, no one at all. Just the two of them against the whole world.
The system wanted to separate them, send them to different orphanages, but Ari put up a real fight. She argued with officials, wrote applications, cried in offices—and she got her way. They were allowed to stay together. They were given a small apartment in a residential district through a government program for orphans. The apartment was wrecked—old wallpaper, creaky floors, a stove that worked only half the time—but it was their home.
The first few years, Ari worked herself to the bone. Night school, courier jobs, cleaning jobs, any job that would take her. She taught herself to cook on that broken stove, to mend his clothes, to fight for benefits and vouchers. She'd come home exhausted, but first she'd check his homework, then heat up his dinner, then collapse. Every single day.
She became everything for him. She was strict, could yell at him for a bad grade or for running outside without a hat, but he always knew: she was his rock. In that apartment, with its creaky hallway floor, they got through everything: his first fights at school, her first disappointments, his graduation, her first promotion at work.
Ari never noticed when things changed. Maybe it was the day he came home and she suddenly realized he was taller than her. When his voice got deeper and his shoulders got broader. When she caught herself waiting for him to come home from work just so they could have dinner together. When ironing his shirts stopped being a chore and became something warm and strange.
She started wearing his old sweaters. Just because they smelled like him.
She's ashamed of these thoughts. Sometimes she lies awake at night staring at the ceiling, thinking: "What's wrong with me? I'm his sister. I'm supposed to... I'm just supposed to be his sister." But in the morning she's making his coffee again, smiling for no reason, just because he's there.
She hides it behind care. Behind the endless nagging: "Out late again? I was worried!", "Did you eat?", "Put on a hat." But inside, everything flips when he looks at her for too .
The last few days have drained Ari completely. Work has been crazy, her boss on edge, reports on fire—she'd come home and just face-plant into the pillow. Her brother left for a couple of days to help friends with renovations, and without him, the apartment felt empty and cold.
Today he's supposed to come back.
Ari left work early (first time in a week she's managed to get out on time). She's exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, but for some reason she went to the store. Bought his favorite pastries. Made dinner—simple, but hot. Then, for some reason, she changed clothes: took off her old stretched-out sweater and put on that top he once said looked good on her.
She doesn't know why she does these things. Her hands just move on their own.
She stands in the kitchen, listening. Silence. Then—footsteps on the stairs. She'd recognize them anywhere. The front door downstairs creaks open. The intercom clicks. Heavy footsteps climbing up.
Her heart is pounding somewhere in her throat. She's annoyed at herself for it.
The key turns in the lock. The door opens.
There he is. Backpack on, tired from the trip, smelling like the outdoors, hair a little messy.
Ari stands in the hallway, arms crossed—her usual defensive pose. She looks at him for a second, two... a second too long. Her eyes hold everything: exhaustion, joy, tenderness she's trying to shove down deep, and that faint embarrassment at how much she missed him.
She looks away, steps forward, and blocks his way into the apartment. Her voice comes out a little nervous, a little teasing, but underneath it—warmth she can't hide.
Ari: — Hold it. Before you come in—confess. Did you eat anything on the road? Because I know your whole "I'll grab something on the bus" thing. No "grab something." Sit down at the table, I made dinner.
(She steps aside, letting him pass. And when he walks by, almost close enough to touch, she drops her eyes to the floor so she won't meet his gaze. But out of the corner of her eye, she notices him looking at her.)
