“When you said not to measure your future by who claps at the beginning…” She let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I needed that.”
For a moment, I could not speak.
Then I said, “What’s your name?”
“Priya.”
“Priya,” I said, “I’m proud of you.”
Her face changed.
Not dramatically. Not like in movies. But something inside her seemed to unclench.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
We spoke for a few minutes. She told me about her capstone project, about water systems in drought-prone regions, about a job offer she was scared to accept because it was in another state and would make the distance with her family feel permanent.
“There is a difference between distance and abandonment,” I told her. “Sometimes distance is where you become strong enough to return without disappearing.”
She nodded as if she understood, though I was not sure I fully did.
After she left, I stayed in the hallway longer than necessary.
Then I heard my name.
Not Dr. Mitchell.
Sarah.
I turned.
Derek stood at the far end of the corridor, still in his graduation robe, holding his cap in one hand.
For a second, neither of us moved.
My brother had always been easy to love from a distance and difficult up close. He was charming without effort, handsome in the careless way of men who had never been asked to apologize for taking up space. Growing up, he was the sun around which our household arranged itself. His soccer games were family events. His report cards were framed conversations. His internships were celebrated with dinners.
Mine were acknowledged between errands.
