Chapter 2

A nurse, a kind woman with tired eyes, checked my vitals.

"Your family is very worried about your brother," she said, her voice neutral. "He's resting now. They said he was quite shaken."

I nodded. Shaken by the attention he was getting, probably.

"They were quite insistent the doctors see him first, even though your injuries are more severe."

She looked at me, a question in her eyes.

"It's fine," I said. My voice was flat.

She adjusted my blanket. "Do you want me to tell them you're awake?"

"No," I said. "Let them focus on Caleb."

She gave a small, understanding nod and left.

Later, I heard snippets of conversation from the hallway. Other nurses, hospital staff.

"The Millers? Oh, the older one is the golden child. Always has been."

"And that Hayes girl, she barely looked at the injured one. Just doted on the brother."

Their words were just confirmation of what I already knew. My isolation was complete, even here.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling tiles.

The pain in my leg was a constant reminder. But the pain inside was older, deeper.

A lifetime of being the afterthought. The spare.

Caleb's childhood illness had defined our family. My conception was a medical procedure, a means to an end.

I remembered small things. Birthday parties where Caleb got the bigger cake, the more expensive presents, even if it wasn't his birthday.

School plays where my parents only showed up for Caleb's minor role, leaving before my lead part.

Their praise for Caleb's mediocre achievements, their dismissal of mine.

"Ethan is quiet," they'd say. "Caleb is the one with spark."

Their love was a finite resource, and Caleb had claimed it all.

I used to fight for scraps of it. I used to hope that one day, they'd see me.

No more.

That hope was a cancer. It had eaten away at me for years.

The accident, Olivia's blatant disregard, their fawning over Caleb – it was a harsh surgery, but it cut the cancer out.

I would live for myself now. Build something new. Something real.

The fight was over. I had lost, in a way. But in losing, I was finally free.

Later, my parents and Olivia did come to my room. David Miller led the way, his face a mask of paternal concern that didn't reach his eyes.

Susan fluttered behind him, dabbing at Caleb's forehead with a handkerchief when they brought him in a wheelchair, looking pale but smug. Olivia walked beside Caleb, her hand resting protectively on his shoulder.

"Ethan, son," David said, his voice a little too loud. "How are you feeling? Caleb was so worried about you. Weren't you, Caleb?"

Caleb managed a weak smile. "Of course, Dad. Ethan, I'm so sorry this happened. If only I could have done more."

He sounded like he was accepting an award.

Olivia looked at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, then it hardened. "It was a terrible thing for you to go through, Caleb. You were so brave." She didn't address me.

"Yes, a real hero," Susan chimed in, stroking Caleb's hair. "The doctors said you're lucky the shock wasn't worse, my brave boy."

They talked about Caleb's "trauma," his "minor scrapes," the "shock" he endured witnessing my accident.

My broken leg, my fractured ribs, the concussion – these were minor inconveniences, it seemed, compared to Caleb's emotional distress.

Olivia then turned to me, her voice sharp. "You really should be more careful, Ethan. You caused such a scare. The event was nearly ruined."

Rage, cold and sharp, pricked at me, but I pushed it down. It was pointless.

"I'll try to be less in the way of falling objects next time," I said, my voice devoid of inflection.

David frowned. "Don't be flippant, Ethan. Olivia is right. You need to think about how your actions affect others."

My actions. As if I'd summoned the equipment to fall on me.

I closed my eyes, feigning exhaustion. "I'm tired. I need to rest."

"Of course, dear," Susan said, already turning back to Caleb. "We'll let you rest. We need to get Caleb home. He needs his own bed."

They left, a whirlwind of misplaced concern, leaving me in the sudden silence of the hospital room.

The silence was a relief. It was a taste of the peace I was determined to find.