The old photo frame lay on the table, its glass fractured clean through the middle. One side held my face, grinning, the other — my brother’s, his eyes the same color as the storm outside.

“You never meant it,” I muttered, my fingers tracing the jagged split between us. The house was too quiet, walls heavy with things left unsaid.

He left two years ago. No note. No call. Just a slammed door and the lingering scent of rain. People asked why, and I never had an answer. Maybe because we were both too stubborn, two mirrors trying to reflect each other without shattering.

I found his old jacket last night in the attic, buried under books we promised to read together. The sleeves still smelled like him. Like autumn bonfires and sharp pine.

Now, I sit here, staring at the fractured frame, remembering the day it cracked. The argument. The accusations. The words we fired like bullets.

“I hate you.”

“I wish you never came into my life. I regret every moment I ever spent with you.”

And then — silence.

I wonder if he remembers too. If somewhere, he’s staring at the same storm. If the fracture in his heart mirrors mine.

I pick up the frame, running my thumb along the break. Maybe one day we’ll fix it. Or maybe some things stay fractured forever.