SIBLING SECRETS - by Yemi And The Pen

The Thing About Crumpled Papers My room looks like a storm blew through it. Probably because I had earlier overturned the place in an effort to find my last empty notebook. I now stand amidst the disarray thinking that I probably have to look elsewhere. I rack my brain for anywhere I haven’t checked yet; the living room, my parents room, the pantry, even the kitchen, and toilets. I had checked them all. Then a thought pops in my mind: my idiot brother’s room. He probably has no reason to take it, but I’m not ruling him out. My brother and I weren't exactly close, yet we weren't strangers either. We existed in that awkward space between affection and distance. He acknowledged my existence, at least. I had spent years trying to build the kind of sibling bond where we would be inseparable, but every attempt had crumbled like dry leaves beneath my feet. I always tell my brother that if he tried hard enough, he would be capable of world domination. He just seems the type. I’ve never seen him smile. I’m not even sure he has friends. I walk down the passageway to my brother’s room. He wouldn’t be home for another 3 hours, so I would have enough time for a thorough search. The door looms in front of me. I always avoid going into his room, for reasons I can’t explain. Also, he somehow always knows when I’ve been there. It was almost as if the walls whispered my name to him. But this is inevitable. I have things to write, and that notebook is my last. His room is clean. It’s always clean. Unusual for a boy, but mum won’t have him live in a dump if she could help it. And she can absolutely help it. Unlike my room, which looked like a battlefield after every search mission, his resembled a quiet museum where every object knew exactly where it belonged. I make a beeline for his bookshelf. I search every level. No notebook. The bed. No notebook. Under the bed. No notebook. Every drawer, both window sills, and the desk. No notebook. I eventually give up and turn to leave the room when I notice something unusual. Beside his bedside table is a small basket overflowing with crumpled sheets of paper. I say this is unusual because my brother never allowed rubbish to remain in his room overnight. Yet there it sat, like a forgotten nest guarding hidden secrets. Maybe the notebook is hidden under the mound of papers. It seems unlikely, but desperation often convinces us to search where logic refuses to look. I walk over and start digging through the pile. Then something catches my eye. I see my name on one of the papers. Curiosity wrapped its fingers around my heart. I open it and find written in it, something I would not have expected. Dear Maria,I’m lucky to have a sister like you. Okay. Weird. However, I find this intriguing. Do all the papers have my name? I pick up another one and open it. Dear Maria,I’m grateful for our conversations. He calls them conversations, I call them almost-conversations. I open another. Dear Maria,I love you unconditionally Alright. That may have moved me. Who knew he was capable of such words.I start tearing through paper after paper Dear Maria,You’re stronger than you think, and I’m here to support you. Dear Maria,You’re the best person I know Dear Maria,Your laughter is music Dear Maria,I’m definitely capable of world domination, with you by my side That one gets a laugh out of me. By the time I go through all the notes, I find myself wiping tears. Are these words he wants to say to me but doesn’t know how? Words he could never say aloud had found refuge in ink. The basket wasn't holding rubbish at all. It was carrying unsent pieces of his heart. Was this how he loved? <a class="tc-blue" href="https://Quietly.Carefully" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Quietly.Carefully </a>. Like rain soaking into the earth without demanding applause. My brother is secretly a softie. That just makes me love him more. He probably doesn’t want me to know about this, so I put everything back in the basket. That day, I left my brother’s room with something more valuable than an empty notebook: a quiet sense of connection and understanding. I realised my brother wasn’t just some cold, unfeeling presence. He was someone who felt deeply, just differently. My heart felt lighter, seen, and somehow more at peace. Since then, I’ve found little ways to repay the kindness he never knew he showed. Small gestures, here and there, and silent thank-yous. A favourite snack left on his desk. An extra serving at dinner. A simple "Good luck" before he leaves the house. Nothing dramatic. Just love learning to speak his language. Every now and then, I always make sure to sneak into my brother’s room when he’s not home and look into the small basket, hoping to find new crumpled papers. And I always do. Well, most of the time.

Other insights from Yemi And The Pen

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons