The front door creaks open, its familiar groan cutting through the quiet hum of the house.

  “Sam! Oh, look at you. It’s so good to see you!” Mom’s voice carries up the stairs, full of the warmth and pride that she rarely has with me. I pause the signal pying softly on my speakers and sit still in my chair, staring at the glow of the monitor.

  The front door shuts again, and there’s a burst of ughter—Sam’s deep and easy, Mom’s high and nervous. I can already imagine her hugging him, asking if he’s eaten enough, if he’s been sleeping, if he’s happy. Dad’s voice joins in, lower but no less eager. Sam coming home is a rare event, a spectacle to be celebrated.

  Footsteps pound up the stairs, heavy and confident, and my chest tightens. I already know where they’re heading.

  The knock is loud, like a drumbeat. “Mai! Open up!”

  I stay frozen for a moment, debating whether to pretend I’m not here. But then the door swings open anyway, and there he is, grinning like he’s just won something.

  “Still hiding out in here, huh?” Sam leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed. His eyes scan the room, taking in the glowing monitors, the notebooks stacked in the corner, the carefully controlled chaos of my life.

  “Hi,” I mumble, my voice ft.

  “That’s all I get?” he says, stepping inside. “Come on, you’ve missed me, right?”

  He flops down onto my bed like it’s his, like he hasn’t been gone for months. His backpack thuds to the floor, and he stretches out, his hands behind his head, grinning at me.

  “I’ve been busy,” I say, turning my chair slightly to face him.

  “With what?” He raises an eyebrow, gncing at the notebook sitting open on my desk. “You still doing your fish stuff?”

  “It’s not fish stuff,” I snap, closing the notebook quickly. “It’s research.”

  “Right. Research.” He smirks, his tone teasing, but there’s no real malice in it. “Are you researching how to beat your high score on whatever game this is?”

  I roll my eyes. “No.”

  Before he can say anything else, Mom’s voice cuts through the air again, sharper this time. “Dinner’s ready! Mai, come down and eat with us!”

  Sam stands, ruffling my hair. “Well, you heard the boss. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I start to say, but he grabs my arm and pulls me out of the chair before I can protest.

  “You’re not getting out of this one,” he says, grinning over his shoulder as he drags me out of my room.

  The dining table looks like it’s been set for a special occasion. Mom’s pulled out the good dishes—the ones with the blue and white patterns she only uses when we have guests; when she wants to impress someone.

  The food smells amazing, even to me: fried fish with crispy edges, steamed jasmine rice, and a bowl of tom yum soup that’s still steaming faintly in the center of the table.

  Sam slides into the seat at the head of the table, grinning as Mom fusses over him, dling soup into his bowl and piling rice onto his pte. Dad sits at his usual spot, his eyes fixed on Sam like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Mom says, her tone almost scolding. “Are you eating enough at school?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Sam says, drawing the words out with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m fine. I eat all the time. I've just been spending a lot of time at the gym with my friends.”

  “Well, you’re eating properly tonight,” she says firmly, passing him the pte of fish.

  I keep my head down as I poke at my rice and the conversation flows around me, a steady stream of questions and answers, ughter and teasing.

  Dad asks about Sam’s csses, his professors, his pns for the future. Mom chimes in with her own questions, her voice bright and eager, like she’s trying to gather every detail of his life in one sitting.

  Sam takes it all in stride, cracking jokes and deflecting with ease. He’s always been good at this—turning their expectations into something lighter, something less suffocating.

  I keep my focus on my pte, grateful for the rare chance to blend into the background. For once, their attention isn’t on me.

  But just when I think I'm safe, Sam's voice cuts through the noise, “Mai?” I stop chewing my fish and look up. “What about you? What’ve you been up to?”

  I freeze, my chopsticks hovering in midair. “Not much,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on my pte.

  “Come on, you must’ve done something cool,” he presses.

  “Mai’s always on her computer,” Mom says, her tone hovering somewhere between affectionate and annoyed. “We don’t even know what she’s doing half the time.”

  Sam chuckles. “Probably hacking the Pentagon.”

  “Something like that,” I mutter, but the joke feels like it’s pressing against my ribs, trying to worm its way under my skin.

  Sam leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Seriously, though. What’ve you been working on? Games? Writing? Secret fish experiments?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, shoving another piece of fish into my mouth to stop the conversation.

  °????.??*:?????*?? ?? ?????:*.??????°

  After dinner, Mom insists on cleaning up, waving us away when we offer to help. Dad retreats to the living room, his tablet already in hand, and Sam grabs my arm before I can slip upstairs.

  “Hey, wait.”

  “What?” I ask, frowning.

  He reaches into his backpack and pulls out something small. “I got you this.”

  He holds it out, and I take it hesitantly. It’s a keychain shaped like a cartoon squid, its eyes wide and silly. The pstic feels smooth and cheap under my fingers, the kind of thing you’d find in a bin near the register.

  “I saw it at some tourist shop in Portnd,” he says, grinning. “Figured you’d like it.”

  “Thanks,” I say quietly, running my thumb over the tiny squid.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says, giving me a pyful nudge. “I mean it—don’t tell anyone. Gotta keep my cool older brother reputation intact.”

  I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips.

  °????.??*:?????*?? ?? ?????:*.??????°

  The next morning, Sam is already halfway through a bowl of cereal when I shuffle into the kitchen.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” he says through a mouthful of food, his grin as wide as always.

  I grunt in response, heading straight for the kettle to make tea. The non-perishable remnants of st night’s dinner sit on the counter, neatly packed into containers by Mom before she went to bed.

  “You busy today?” Sam asks, leaning back in his chair.

  “Not really,” I mumble, pouring hot water into my mug.

  “Good. Let’s hang out.”

  I gnce at him, frowning. “Why?”

  “Because I’m your brother, and you love me,” he says, his tone mockingly sweet. “Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll hit the arcade. You can be my pyer two, just like old times.”

  °????.??*:?????*?? ?? ?????:*.??????°

  The arcade smells like stale popcorn and faintly burnt circuits, the kind of smell that hasn’t changed in decades.

  Sam pays for a stack of tokens, jingling them in his hand like a prize. He turns to me, grinning. “Ready to get your butt kicked?”

  “You wish,” I say, but my voice wavers.

  He leads the way to a row of racing games, the neon lights of the machines reflecting off his face. I take the seat next to him, gripping the steering wheel as the countdown fshes on the screen.

  “Three, two, one…” I mouth.

  The game starts, and the sound of roaring engines drown out the birthday party kids shouting nearby. I focus on the track, my fingers tight on the wheel, but Sam is already ughing as he pulls ahead.

  “Come on, Mai, you’re letting me win!”

  I grit my teeth and put my foot down on the accelerator, my car weaving around his until I’m in the lead.

  The next hour passes in a blur of games and fshing lights.

  We py a rhythm game, the music pounding through the speakers as our feet stomp on the arrows. Sam gets a higher score than me on the first round, but I crush him on the second.

  We move to the air hockey table next, the puck sliding back and forth so fast I can barely keep track of it. Sam cheers when he scores, raising his arms in victory, but I make a comeback in the final seconds, smirking as the puck nds in his goal.

  “You’ve gotten sneaky,” he says, shaking his head.

  “You’ve gotten slow,” I shoot back, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

  He ughs, ruffling my hair. “There’s the Mai I know.”

  For a while, it feels like we’re kids again, back when things were simpler. Before Sam went to college. Before I dropped out. Before I started feeling like a Congo tetra without a school.

  As we leave the arcade, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air, Sam gnces at me and says, “You know, you should do stuff like this more often.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Leave the house. Have fun. You’re way too cooped up all the time.”

  I shrug, looking down at the extra tokens still clutched in my hand. “Mom doesn't really like it when I go out on my own. I’m fine.”

  He stops walking, turning to face me. “Are you? I mean, really?”

  I hate how he looks at me when he says it—like he’s trying to peel me apart, yer by yer. Like he wants an answer I can’t give him.

  “I’m fine,” I repeat, sharper this time.

  Sam doesn’t push, but his smile is smaller when we start walking again.

  °????.??*:?????*?? ?? ?????:*.??????°

  The restaurant Sam picks is the kind of pce Mom loves—small, unassuming, and filled with the smell of fresh herbs and sizzling woks.

  “I figured you’d want Thai food,” he says as we step inside, holding the door open for me. “This pce has good reviews, so don’t say I don’t think about you.”

  I don’t respond, my eyes scanning the tables. It’s quiet, only a few other diners scattered throughout the room. Sam fgs down a waiter and asks for a table near the window.

  As we sit, I notice he’s already reaching for the menu, flipping through it with the ease of someone who’s been eating out on his own for years.

  “Order whatever you want,” he says, gncing up at me. “My treat.”

  I nod, gncing at the menu but not really seeing the words.

  When the waiter comes by, Sam doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll get the rb gai, the green curry, and some pad see ew,” he says, handing over the menu. “Oh, and an iced coffee for me. What about you, Mai?”

  I freeze, my mind bnk.

  “She’ll take a lime soda,” Sam says before I can speak, smiling at the waiter.

  The man nods and disappears, leaving us alone with the faint ctter of dishes and the hum of conversation from the other tables.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I mumble, staring at the table.

  “What? Order for you?” He shrugs. “You’re always indecisive, and I know what you like.”

  He's right, so I don't argue. Instead, I look out the window at the people walking past.

  The food arrives quickly, the ptes steaming as they’re set down in front of us. Sam digs in immediately, spooning curry onto his rice with enthusiasm.

  “This is good,” he says, his mouth half-full. “You should try it.”

  I take a small bite, the fvors sharp and familiar, but it feels like my appetite got left behind at the arcade. I eat slowly, pushing the rice around on my pte and gncing out the window at the cars passing by as I chew.

  “You know,” Sam says, “I was thinking—you should try streaming.”

  I blink, turning back to him. “What?”

  “Streaming,” he repeats, grinning. “You’re good at games. You’re passionate about stuff. People eat that up.”

  I shake my head. I watched streamers from time to time, but never thought about doing it myself. “No one would watch me.”

  “Not yet, maybe,” he says, leaning forward. “It takes time to grow an audience. You never know. It could be fun. You could talk about fish or the ocean or whatever it is you’re into these days.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I say, my voice quiet.

  “Sure it is,” he says, brushing off my protest. “You just need some decent equipment, a good mic, maybe a camera if you’re feeling brave. The rest will figure itself out.”

  I frown, picking at a piece of chicken with my chopsticks. “Why are you even bringing this up?”

  Sam hesitates for a moment, his grin fading slightly. “I don’t know. I just… I think it might help. You know, with connecting to people. The autism stuff.”

  My stomach twists.

  “Streaming isn’t going to fix me,” I snap, louder than I meant to.

  “Mai, that’s not what I meant,” Sam says quickly, his expression shifting. “I’m just saying it might help you feel more… I don’t know, confident. Like, you’ve got so much to share. People would love it if you gave them the chance.”

  I don’t respond, the words sinking into the silence between us. He doesn’t mean to be patronizing. I know that. But it still feels like he’s poking at something too raw to touch.

  He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, I probably just said it wrong. But just think about it, okay?”

  The waiter comes by to clear the ptes, and I catch myself watching Sam as he chats with him briefly, his voice casual and confident. He makes it look so easy, navigating the world like it’s built for him.

  But I’m not him.

  And the only thing I can think about is the signal.

  I gnce at Sam, and I feel a little bad, but he’s given me something I can use.

  A microphone. That’s what I need. Not for streaming, not for people, but for proof.

  The waiter brings the check, and Sam is scrolling through his phone while I finish the st sips of my lime soda.

  “I’m stuffed,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “How about you?”

  I nod, pushing the empty gss toward the edge of the table. The food was good—great, even—but my mind is now elsewhere, ever since the conversation about streaming. The word microphone echoes faintly in my thoughts, looping in time with the pulse of the signal I can almost hear if I close my eyes.

  “Ready to head out?” Sam asks, standing and stretching.

  “Yeah, give me a second. Watch my purse, okay?” I slip out of the booth and head toward the restroom without waiting for an answer.

  When I come back, Sam’s grinning like he knows something I don’t.

  “What?” I ask, sliding back into my seat.

  He tilts his head, holding up my phone. “So, who’s Tom?”

  My stomach drops. “What? How do you—give me that!”

  He pulls it back, out of my reach, the grin widening. “Rex. Your phone lit up while you were gone. I saw the text.” He waves the phone teasingly, like a prize he’s holding just out of reach.

  “Sam, give it back,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended.

  He lowers the phone slightly, his expression softening as he hands it over. “Okay, okay. Chill. I didn’t read the whole thing.”

  I snatch the phone from his hand, holding it close as I gnce at the screen. The text is simple: Hey, just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

  It’s from Tom, the guy from the date. The guy who made me feel small without even trying.

  “So?” Sam leans forward, his elbows on the table, his grin returning. “Who is he?”

  “No one,” I say quickly, shoving the phone back into the pocket of my purse.

  “Uh-huh.” He raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Mai. You can’t just say ‘no one’ when a guy is texting you. Spill.”

  “It’s nothing,” I insist, my face growing warm.

  Sam doesn’t let up. “Did you go on a date? Did Mom set it up? Was it awkward? Oh, God, was it one of her friends’ kids? I bet it was.”

  I gre at him, but the heat in my cheeks gives me away.

  “That’s a yes!” he says, ughing. “Come on, tell me. Was he nice? Did he pay for dinner? Did he do the whole pulling-out-your-chair thing?”

  “Stop,” I mutter, looking away.

  Sam’s ughter fades slightly, repced by something gentler. “Hey, I’m just teasing. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  I gnce at him, hesitating. He’s annoying, sure, but he’s also Sam. He’s the one person who’s always been in my corner, even if he shows it in the most obnoxious ways.

  “It was fine,” I mumble finally. “It was… awkward. He wasn’t what I expected.”

  Sam tilts his head. “Not what you expected how?”

  “He just—” I pause, trying to find the right words. “He talked a lot about himself. And he… he didn’t get me. You know?”

  Sam nods, his expression serious for once. “That sucks. But hey, at least you tried, right? That’s more than most people can say.”

  I shrug, looking down at my hands. “Yeah, I guess.”

  As we leave the restaurant, Sam slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a half-hug.

  “Don’t sweat it,” he says, his voice light again. “If he didn’t get you, he’s not worth your time. You’re weird, Mai, but in the best way. Someone will get that eventually.”

  His words make my chest tighten, and I don’t know if it’s the compliment or the reminder that I’ve never really felt like someone worth getting.

  I don’t say anything, but I let him keep his arm around me as we walk to the car.

  °????.??*:?????*?? ?? ?????:*.??????°

  The glow of neon lights reflects off the puddles in the parking lot as we pull into the electronics store. The sign above the door flickers slightly, casting uneven shadows on the pavement.

  “Why are we here?” I ask, watching as Sam unbuckles his seatbelt.

  “Thought we’d look around,” he says, grinning. “You like tech stuff, right?”

  I frown, my hand hovering over the car door handle. “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts,” he says, cutting me off. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  The store smells of pstic and new carpet, the air alive with the hum of dispy screens and overhead lights. Sam strides ahead, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes scanning the rows of gadgets like he’s on a mission.

  I trail behind him, my gaze drifting over the shelves of ptops, headphones, and monitors. The faint hum of the signal is still in the back of my mind, pulling at my thoughts, but I remind myself to focus on the present.

  Sam stops in front of a dispy of audio equipment, his grin widening. “Here we go. This is the good stuff.”

  My chest tightens as I follow his gaze. The microphones are sleek and shiny, their price tags dangling like little warnings.

  “You thinking about the streaming thing?” Sam asks, gncing at me.

  I hesitate, my fingers brushing over the edge of one of the boxes. “Maybe.”

  “You’d be good at it,” he says, grabbing a box and flipping it over to read the specs. “You’ve got that whole mysterious, quiet genius vibe going on. People eat that stuff up.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not a genius.”

  “Sure you are,” he says, smirking. “Just, you know, in a weird way.”

  I pick up a microphone, my hands trembling slightly as I study the bel. It’s not the most expensive one on the shelf, but it’s still way out of my budget.

  Sam notices, his grin softening. “Hey, don’t worry about the price. It’s your birthday soon, right?”

  “Sam, no—”

  “Rex,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ve got it covered. I’m working at the computer b now, remember? This is nothing.”

  I stare at him, my chest tightening again. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t,” he says, already heading for the register with the microphone in hand. “That’s the whole point of a gift. Come on, Mai, let me be the cool older brother for once.”

  The cashier rings up the microphone, the sound of the register beeping loud in the otherwise quiet store. Sam hands over his card like it’s no big deal and his grin returns as he tucks the receipt into his pocket.

  “Happy early birthday,” he says, handing me the bag.

  I take it hesitantly, the weight of it heavier than I expected.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we head back to the car. “Seriously. Don’t mention it. Mom’ll kill me if she finds out I spent money on something that isn’t, like, socks or textbooks.”

  The ride home is quiet, the bag resting in my p. I run my fingers over the edge of the box, my mind already racing with pns.

  Sam hums along to the radio, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music.

  “Hey, Mai?” he says suddenly, gncing at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “What?”

  “You’re gonna do something awesome with that, right?”

  I nod, my throat tightening around the words I don’t say.

  “Good,” he says, smiling. “You deserve it.”

  I clutch the bag tighter, staring out the window as the neon lights of the store fade into the distance.