Most people who know me will eventually get to know (if they haven’t already) that I cry over pretty much everything, like the movie Baghban (I’ve cried at every single minute of it, even though it’s extremely hyperbolic), or over Tumblr headcanons that make up for the lack of character development in shows I’ve been obsessing over (I’m looking at you, VLD), or pictures of children caught up in the Syrian Civil War (remember that?)

What happened last weekend is a prime example of my “crybabiness.”

I was looking for a writing piece I wrote in the 10th grade that I remembered all of a sudden. Unyielding searches through my current laptop eventually led me to Dropbox which I hadn’t used in two years. And apparently I’m 4-point-something GB over my limit. Whoops. 

Dropbox stored a lot of my old high school stuff, but most importantly cringy middle school era photos and videos I took in terrible quality with my old HTC One phone.

I was curious, of course, and a bit desperate for a laugh. After opening up a two-minute video of eight grade “Shoramiah” speaking in a pretty decent British accent, I opened up a video that took place a few months before, during summer vacation, and…well…it made me cry.

I didn’t expect to see my little brother, around 8 years old, prancing around in short shorts with long hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes which he still has (unfortunately). But that wasn’t what made me tear up.

It was just three words.

“Haha just go.”

I ran to my sister with my laptop. She was in the middle of her work as usual. She shrugged me off as usual. But I stayed. As usual.

I threw my laptop onto her bunk and played her the video. Those three words had broken her usual stoic expression and she took over my laptop, replaying the words over and over again.

And that’s when my throat tightened. I started to sob.

It was my little brother saying those three words. In his high-pitched, adorable, pre-puberty voice. The sound that my sister and I have been missing admittedly. Much more than his chubby fingers that were once half the size of mine and now bigger and longer than mine. Much more than his small feet that are now larger than my father’s. Much more than his old music taste (he listens to mainstream music now, ewww.)

I know, I know, I’m pretty pathetic. But sometimes I really wish he was eight again, innocent, adorable, although evil nonetheless. At least back then, the fissure wasn’t as deep.

 

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