Unspoken

Childhood is supposed to be warm, but for Aarav, it often felt like standing in the cold shadow of his elder brother.

Kabir was everything he wasn't — focused, intelligent, and disciplined. He walked like a storm chasing purpose. While Aarav stumbled through schoolbooks and cricket matches, Kabir kept his door shut, buried in textbooks and dreams.

He never played with Aarav. Never helped with homework. Never shared his snacks or secrets.

For years, Aarav's small heart wondered why his brother never looked back.

But life has a strange way of cracking even the hardest shells.

The Fall

It happened on a dull evening when their father's scooter was hit by a speeding car. One second he was there, alive and joking with the shopkeeper. The next, everything was blood, sirens, and screaming silence.

Kabir stood frozen outside the ICU, clenching his jaw, his sharp eyes hollowed by something he had never felt before — helplessness.

Their mother, a woman made of quiet resilience, broke that night. With red eyes, she held Kabir's arm tight and whispered,
"Tu kuch bhi kar, lekin Aarav ka haath kabhi mat chhodna."
("Whatever you do, never let go of Aarav's hand.")

He just nodded. And something shifted in him that night.

The Change

From that day, Kabir became a man.

He started working part-time jobs while finishing college. He cooked, paid bills, bought medicines, and read Aarav's textbooks late at night just to help him the next morning — pretending it was no big deal.

One evening, after months of saving from his part-time job and skipping meals, he came home pushing a second-hand bike into the driveway.

Aarav's eyes lit up.
"Yeh… mere liye?" ("This... for me?")

Kabir just tossed him the keys without looking at him.
"Don't be late to class anymore."
And walked away.

He continued to travel by overcrowded buses. Holding sweaty railings, swaying with strangers, pretending he preferred it that way.

But never said a word.

The Bond They Never Spoke About

Kabir never softened his tone. Never said "I love you." Never hugged him. But he noticed everything.

When Aarav stayed up at night worried about job interviews, Kabir sat silently outside his room, staring at the ceiling, feeling every ounce of his brother's anxiety.

He started leaving job alerts printed next to the breakfast plate.

Sometimes he'd leave a 500-rupee note under Aarav's notebook, no explanation, just a lifeline.

And when Aarav got rejected from a job he wanted badly — he found a chocolate on his table that night. His favorite since childhood. No note. Just care.

Unspoken. Like always.

The Day That Broke Him

One evening, Aarav sat quietly in the living room, looking lost. The same boy who once rode a bike like freedom itself now stared at job portals like prison walls.

That night, Kabir didn't eat.

He stood in the balcony, hiding tears he had never allowed himself to shed. It killed him that he could carry the weight of the world but couldn't give his brother the wings to fly.

The Younger Brother Finally Spoke

Months later, Aarav finally got a job.

He ran home, breathless with joy, and for the first time — hugged Kabir tightly.

"Bhai… I did it!"

Kabir didn't hug him back.
He just stood there — stiff, unsmiling.
Then quietly said, "About time."

But that night, when everyone slept, Kabir opened his phone and stared at the picture of Aarav's offer letter for a long, long time.

Then smiled — a smile no one would ever see.

Because some brothers don't say 'I love you.' They live it. Every single day. In silence. In sacrifice. In strength.