Lines of a Dream

After the suffocating tension at dinner, Noah found himself back in the familiar solitude of his room. He sat on his bed, staring at the blank walls, his mind racing. His father's words echoed in his head like a mantra. *You're a lost cause.*

Noah leaned back, pressing his hands against his temples. He tried to push the memories away, but they resurfaced—old mistakes, past failures, and the constant comparisons to Henry. Each one clawed at his chest, leaving behind an ache that felt unbearable.

Desperate to escape the spiral of his thoughts, Noah grabbed his sketchbook from the desk and a pencil that had worn down to a stub. Drawing was his one solace—the one thing in his life that gave him a shred of control. He flipped to a fresh page and let his hand guide him.

The lines started to take shape—rough and jagged at first, but then more defined. A massive dragon stretched across the page, its scales glinting as if reflecting the light of a burning world. Its eyes were feral, glowing with fury, and its jagged teeth curled into a snarl. It soared through a stormy sky, its wings tearing through dark clouds like blades. Below, a massive castle stood defiantly. Every brick was painstakingly drawn, with turrets stretching high into the heavens.

At the very top of the castle stood a lone figure—a white-haired warrior clad in flowing robes. The figure's sword was raised, catching the glint of lightning flashing in the sky. Their stance was fearless, as though they were ready to fight the impossible. The world around them was chaos, but this character stood as a beacon of resistance.

Noah added more detail—the swirling wind around the castle, the cracks in its stone from previous battles, the sharp talons of the dragon descending for its strike. It was intense, alive, and full of emotion—everything Noah wished he could express with words.

He sat back, staring at the page, his hand still trembling from the effort. For a fleeting moment, he felt peace. He felt… seen.

His door creaked open. The moment shattered.

Noah glanced up to see Henry standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're seriously still awake? Don't tell me you're *drawing* again."

Noah closed the sketchbook quickly and hugged it to his chest. "What do you want, Henry?" he mumbled.

Henry rolled his eyes. "I came to tell you not to make me late tomorrow. It's the first day of the semester, and you're going to be tagging along at *my* school. I'm not waiting for you." He leaned against the doorframe, his smirk twisting into something sharper. "And just so we're clear, stay out of my way. Don't talk to me, don't act like we're friends, and for the love of God, don't tell anyone we're brothers."

Noah stiffened. "Why does it matter?" he said quietly.

Henry scoffed, stepping into the room. "Because I have a reputation to protect, unlike you. I don't need people thinking I'm babysitting my loser brother. Just… do everyone a favor and blend into the background like you always do."

Noah's chest tightened. The words hit harder than he wanted them to. He stayed silent, gripping the edges of his sketchbook like it was a shield.

Henry snorted at his lack of response. "Good talk." He turned and walked out, pausing in the hallway to glance back. "And seriously, Noah—don't embarrass me. You're bad enough at home. Don't ruin my life at school too."

The door shut with a loud *click*, and Noah was left alone again, staring at the floor. The faint peace he'd found in his drawing was gone, replaced by the familiar ache of being invisible.

---

The morning came too quickly. The light creeping through the blinds was unforgiving as it nudged Noah awake. He sat up slowly, the heavy fog of dread settling in his chest. It wasn't just about starting a new school—it was about starting it with Henry.

After dragging himself through his morning routine, Noah made his way downstairs. The kitchen was already busy. His mother was flipping pancakes, though her attention was mostly on her phone resting on the counter. Michael sat at the table, swinging his legs as he ate cereal, his face lit up with childish excitement. Henry, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression.

Noah slipped into a chair at the far end of the table. No one acknowledged him. Not at first, anyway.

"Morning," he mumbled, though it was mostly to himself.

His mother didn't look up, her voice distant. "There's toast if you want it."

Noah reached for a slice, his movements slow and hesitant. He noticed Henry glancing at him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. Michael, however, was a whirlwind of energy.

"Guess what, Mom!" Michael said, his voice bright. "I'm gonna win the class art contest this week!"

"That's great, sweetheart," their mom replied absently, still typing away on her phone. "Just don't forget your lunch, okay?"

Michael beamed, oblivious to the lack of attention. "I won't!" he chirped.

Henry snorted, finally speaking up. "Art contest? What a joke."

"Better than anything you do," Michael shot back, sticking out his tongue.

"Michael, don't talk like that," their mom said, but there was no real weight to her words.

Noah stared at his toast, trying to disappear into the background. The same dynamic played out every morning—Michael basking in the attention, Henry making snide remarks, and Noah… just there.

Their father entered the kitchen, already dressed for work. He glanced at Noah briefly, as if remembering he existed. "You ready for school?"

"Yes," Noah said softly.

"Good." His father grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door without another word. "Henry, don't let him screw anything up," he said over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Henry replied lazily, barely looking up from his phone.

As their father left, Michael finished his cereal and bolted for the door, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders. "Bye, Mom! Bye, Henry! Bye, Noah!" he called out cheerfully.

Henry stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Try not to embarrass me," he said to Noah, his tone sharp. "Seriously."

Noah didn't respond. He finished his toast in silence, his chest heavy. The same weight, the same suffocating feeling of being invisible, followed him as he trudged upstairs to get dressed.

When he returned to the hallway, his uniform straightened and his bag over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the stairs. His reflection stared back, pale and anxious.

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