(“My little brother is seriously huge, but to the eye…”) It started when we were kids.
It’s the way he offers his jacket to a crying friend without a word. The way he texts me good night every single day. The way he exists so quietly in a world that won’t stop staring. uchi no otouto maji de dekain dakedo mi ni
“You’re not scary at all,” I told him once. (“My little brother is seriously huge, but to
But the strange thing is—mi ni tsukanai. You don’t notice it right away. The way he exists so quietly in a
So yeah. Maji de dekai. But look closer—you might almost miss him.
I’d measure him against the doorframe every birthday, pencil marks climbing higher each year—first my shoulder, then my ear, then the top of my head. By middle school, he already looked down on me. By high school, he had to duck under every lintel in our grandparents’ old house.
“Maji de dekai,” I’d mutter, watching him squeeze through the train doors sideways. People stared. Kids pointed. He’d just shrug, pull his hood lower, and keep walking.