We are so different, my brother and I. He in college, me in high. He stood by while I cried. He stood there while my mind poured thoughts and emotions and pain onto the floor, tears falling down my face, tears running down my neck, tears running down my chest. He stood there and he watched me crumble. He watched me tear myself down. He watched my tears fall like bricks in a collapsing building. He looked at me, with this look that wouldn’t change. He looked shocked. He looked frightened. He looked concerned. He looked upset—he and I. We are so different. But he was crying too. His tears fell slower. His eyes held on to each tear, pleading that they wouldn’t leave. Because he could never ever leave his head. He could never abandon his thoughts. His beliefs. He didn’t dare to speak his mind. His mind made him blind, blind to happiness. He couldn’t feel it. He and I. Are the same. Neither of us could feel the things we wanted to feel. Neither of us wanted to admit to our emotions. Neither of us wanted to suffer in silence. Neither of us wanted to uphold the strength we built from the darkness of our minds. Neither of us wanted to be weak anymore. Neither of us wanted to feel anymore. We are the same. We are the same. We are the same. My brother and I. Born of the same mother. So similar, he and I. Our emotions intertwined, our structure equally decayed. But our buildings, the way they deteriorated, was where we parted. He had never broken before. He was the strong one. Built by steel. Built by disappointment. Built by expectations. But I was so wrong. He was the weakest. He was brittle, rotting wood. Collapsing under the weight of steel built above. But I was there. I was there. And he was there too. Our buildings, twins of destruction. Crashing down, but crashing together. He and I. We are the same. No matter the weight. No matter the crumble rate. We are the same.