Lonely Nights // H.S

33.

CW: this chapter includes mentions of alcoholism.

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'I was just dancing in the dark'

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My brother has always been a rock. That is undeniable. Whatever issue I have gone through, he's been there to support me and keep me level-headed.

For some time after my relationship with Harry came to light, I worried that would change. Part of me has always been convinced that people are just waiting for a reason to leave, and by professing my love for his engaged friend, I finally gave him a reason to. But to my surprise, even after the anger he felt over it, he hasn't left my side.

Joint at the hip, even as adults.

I suppose when you're as close as we have always been, bonded through friendship as well as blood, you never really grow out of that loyalty. It becomes a part of every lived experience, constantly looking for the connection between them and your life. In truth, Riley is my life. He's everything I need in a big brother, and everything a person deserves. He's the best of us.

Growing up, I think I idolised him. Not in the same way that I've idolised others – this was because I admired him, and I wanted to be him. It wasn't about having what he had or glorifying the person he'd become; it was entirely down to how safe he'd made me feel without ever asking for anything in return. Riley has always been the protector of the family, the one that nurtures our needs and warms our hearts. He's the person that makes you smile when all you want to do is cry, and he never thinks twice about that role.

I've often wondered if it felt like a chore to him. Maybe he has noticed this responsibility, but because of his loyalty to his family, he's never thought to question what growing up with such a burden can mean. He'd never define us as that, of course, but I suppose it's only natural to view something as serious as that as an issue at some point. Especially when it seems to have been thrust upon him from such a young age.

For the longest time, it was just him and Mum. His father, James, was around, and he's still a constant in both our lives, but as Mackeys, they were the only two that mattered. And then, when I came along, his life became something it hadn't been before. He had someone to look out for, to help, to keep safe. Mum did her best, but for Riley, it's always felt like something he had to do, and he never questioned it.

Sometimes, I feel guilty. I know I shouldn't, but I do. I consider all the things he might have missed out on, and it makes me sad to think that I was the reason for them. Though no one asked it of him, he had to grow up much faster than other kids. Freedom wasn't a luxury for him, not when he had a little sister to manage, a best friend to constantly be there for, and a mother that probably needed more help than she let on.

It's strange how easily humans find fault within themselves. Almost as if we start looking for it the moment we leave our mothers' wombs. When the harsh air of independence hits our skin, that's when our defences go up, and we seek out the weakest parts of ourselves to try and get rid of those first. If those things are our shields, then maybe we can try and protect what little strength we may have, too. But over time, you start to obsess over the things you dislike, and suddenly they're all you seem to care for. There are no positives, no kind words to associate with yourself. Only those that might express your loathing.

If Riley heard these thoughts, he'd most definitely chastise me for them. He'd say I'm being silly, tell me that there's no reason for me to think these things about myself because he loves me for who I am, and he always will. I wonder if a person ever truly grows out of feeling like this.