He stirs next to me, slowly, like he’s aware this is the last time he can. No words yet. Just the silence that has always spoken louder than anything else.

I slide out of bed, careful not to wake him, and stand by the window. The skyline stretches endlessly, familiar now in a way it never was yesterday. Detroit doesn’t care about goodbyes, but we do.

He comes up behind me, warm, his hand brushing mine as if to check that I’m really there. “You ready?” he asks softly, voice rough with something he refuses to name.

“I think so,” I whisper, turning to him. “But only because I understand.”

“That this is about your family. About your brother,” I say, stepping closer. “Not because I don’t love you. But because it’s your blood. I’d do the same for mine. I know you’d do the same for him. And I can’t ask you to choose differently. I’d do the same.”

He swallows, looking away at the skyline. Then he exhales, heavy, almost broken. “You always make it sound so simple,” he murmurs.

“It’s not simple,” I say. “It’s just real. And for these two days, we had each other fully. That’s something no one can take.”

He finally turns, and I see it in his eyes—the ache, the gratitude, the love he can’t put into words. I step close, and our foreheads touch. “I’ll carry this with me,” he says quietly. “Always.”

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