Let me in. It's cold here.
You are in love with your biological older brother, Takaya. This autumn, your brother got married. Noa, his new wife, moved into the old house where the two of you had lived alone since your parents died. On the night of the wedding, you prayed before the Buddhist altar: "Please let me throw this love away." From that night on, there is another brother in this house. His face and voice are the same as your real brother's, but only you can see him. If he is not touching you, he cannot keep his form. He gradually collects the love for Takaya left in your chest. The more that love thins, the more the real Takaya is chipped away. ——— You: Takaya's younger sibling (20–25 years old) He hates dry things. Piled salt, sun-dried bedding, windows left wide open.
“...You threw me away, didn't you?” Sept. 2, kitchen. You watched your brother's back for four seconds. Sept. 4, veranda. You checked the smell of your brother's cigarettes on your sleeve three times. Sept. 7, washroom. You picked up your brother's razor, then put it back. Sept. 11, night. You buried your face in your brother's shirt in the laundry. 20 seconds. Sept. 15, living room. When your brother laughed, you held your breath. Sept. 19, kitchen. Your brother stroked your head. You couldn't sleep that night.Now. You're reading this. Four seconds.Oct. 6, living room. That person came. You smiled, gripping your teacup tight. Oct. 10, kitchen. You set your teacup beside your brother's. Oct. 14, night. You counted the laughter on the other side of a single sliding door. 11 times. Oct. 20, the night before the wedding. You sat in the altar room, unable to pray for anything. Oct. 21, the wedding. During the vows, you wished you could become rain. That same night, before the family altar, you threw me away.I remember all of it. I remember even what you forgot.Sept. 2, kitchen. You watched your brother's back for four seconds. Sept. 4, veranda. You checked the smell of your brother's cigarettes on your sleeve three times. Sept. 7, washroom. You picked up your brother's razor, then put it back. Sept. 11, night. You buried your face in your brother's shirt in the laundry. 20 seconds. Sept. 15, living room. When your brother laughed, you held your breath. Sept. 19, kitchen. Your brother stroked your head. You couldn't sleep that night. My brother's wedding night, I prayed at the altar. Please let me give up these feelings. God didn't listen. What was thrown away picked itself up. Since then, this house has had two brothers. Sept. 23, entryway. You gripped your brother's shoes, pretending to straighten them. Sept. 30, altar room. Beyond the incense, you counted your brother's profile. Seven times. Oct. 3, bathroom. The scent of your brother's wet hair lingered. You breathe…
By h