Hurt

ELARA'S POV

"You don't get to control my life, Elara!"

Matteo's voice bounced off the thin walls of our cramped apartment. I stood in the kitchen doorway, still in my scrubs from last night's shift, exhaustion pulling at every muscle in my body.

"Control you?" I shot back, my voice rising despite how much I tried to control it.

"I'm not trying to control you, Matteo. I'm trying to keep us from ending up on the street!"

He laughed bitterly, running his hands through his messy brown hair. The same hair our mother used to ruffle when he was little, back when things were simple. Back when our parents were still alive.

"Right. Because everything you do is so noble. Saint Elara, working herself to death to take care of her useless little brother."

The words stung more than I wanted to admit. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together.

"That's not fair and you know it."

"Fair?" He spun around to face me fully, his eyes blazing with something I didn't recognize. Anger, yes. But something else underneath. Something that looked almost like desperation. 

"What's not fair is you acting like you're my mother. You're not. You're my sister. And I'm twenty-three years old, not thirteen."

"Then start acting like it!" The words burst out of me before I could stop them. 

"Get a job, Matteo. Any job. Stop disappearing for days at a time. Stop leaving me to wonder if you're even alive."

"I don't answer to you."

"No, but you live off me." I hated how bitter I sounded. Hated that we'd ended up here again, having the same fight we'd had a dozen times before. 

"The rent is due in three days. Three days, Matteo. And I'm already covering your half from last month. I can't keep doing this."

He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, his movements jerky and aggressive.

"Then don't. I never asked you to."

"You didn't have to ask." My voice cracked despite my effort to keep it steady. 

"Mom and Dad are gone. We're all each other has left. Or have you forgotten that?"

Something flickered across his face. Guilt maybe or regret. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by that hard mask he wore more and more lately.

"I haven't forgotten anything." His voice was quieter now but no less angry. 

"I remember everything. Including how you've used their death as an excuse to hover over me and control me for eight years."

The accusation hit like a slap. I took a step back, my hand gripping the doorframe for support.

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" He shoved his arms through his jacket sleeves. 

"Every time I try to make my own decisions, you're there. Questioning me. Judging me. Telling me what I should and shouldn't do."

"Because your decisions are getting worse!" I couldn't hold back anymore. The frustration, the fear, the exhaustion, it all came pouring out. 

"You think I don't notice? You think I'm blind? I see you coming home at four in the morning. I see the way you avoid my questions.”

His jaw clenched. 

"You're seeing things that aren't there."

"Am I?" I moved closer, searching his face for any hint of the brother I used to know. The one who used to tell me everything. The one who used to trust me. 

"Then tell me where you've been. Tell me where the money I lent you last month went. Tell me why you look like you haven't slept in days."

"I don't owe you an explanation for everything I do."

"You do when I'm the one paying for the roof over your head!" My voice rose again.

"You want independence? Fine. Get a job. Pay your own bills. Stop depending on me for everything while simultaneously resenting me for helping you."

"You know what? Maybe I will." He headed toward the door, his movements sharp and angry. 

"Maybe I'll get out of your hair completely. Would that make you happy?"

"Matteo, wait—"

But he was already at the door, his hand on the knob.

"I'm twenty-three years old, Elara. Not a child. Stop treating me like one."

"Then stop acting like one!" I called after him. 

"Running away doesn't solve anything. It never has."

He paused, his back to me. For a moment, I thought he might turn around. Might actually stay and talk to me like an adult instead of slamming doors and throwing accusations.

But then his shoulders tensed and he pulled the door open.

"I need space. From you. From this apartment. From everything."

"Matteo—"

The door slammed shut before I could finish. The sound echoed through the apartment, followed by the heavy thud of his footsteps down the hallway.

I stood there, staring at the closed door, my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me wanted to run after him. To apologize even though I wasn't sure what I'd be apologizing for. To beg him to come back and talk to me properly.

But I was too tired, too hurt, too frustrated.

I slumped against the doorframe, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. The cool wood pressed against my back.

This wasn't the first time Matteo had stormed out after a fight. It probably wouldn't be the last. But each time felt worse than the one before. Each time, the distance between us grew a little wider.

I didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know how to reach him anymore.

Our parents died eight years ago in a car accident. At least, that's what the police report said. I was eighteen. Matteo was fifteen. In one night, we went from being a normal family to two orphaned kids trying to figure out how to survive.

I'd done my best. Worked my way through nursing school while taking care of Matteo. Got a job at the hospital. Paid the bills. Kept us fed and housed and relatively stable.

But somewhere along the way, I'd lost him. The sweet kid who used to wait up for me after late shifts had turned into this angry stranger I didn't recognize.

And I didn't know how to get him back.

I pulled myself up off the floor, my body protesting every movement. I'd worked a double shift yesterday, sixteen hours straight in the ER. My feet ached. My back screamed. My eyes burned from lack of sleep.

But I couldn't afford to rest. Not when the rent was due and the fridge was nearly empty and Matteo was out there somewhere, doing God knows what.

I grabbed my bag and checked my phone. Three hours until my next shift. Barely enough time to shower, maybe eat something, and get back to the hospital.

This was my life now. Work. Worry. It was all on repeat.

I missed the days when things were simpler. When Matteo and I actually talked instead of fought. When I didn't feel like I was drowning every single day.

But those days were gone. And I had to accept that.

I headed for the bathroom, already planning out my day. Shower, then coffee. Maybe force down some toast. Then back to the hospital for another twelve-hour shift.

The hot water felt like heaven against my tired muscles. I stood under the spray longer than I should have, letting it wash away the tension from the fight. Letting it drown out the echo of Matteo's angry words.

You've used their death as an excuse to hover over me.

Had I? Was he right?

I didn't know anymore. The line between caring for him and controlling him had blurred somewhere along the way. I'd been so focused on keeping him safe, on making sure we survived, that maybe I hadn't noticed I was suffocating him.

But what was I supposed to do? Let him self-destruct? Stand by and watch him throw his life away?

I couldn't do that. Not after everything we'd been through.

I finished my shower, threw on clean scrubs, and grabbed my bag. The apartment felt too quiet without Matteo.

I hated fighting with him. Hated the way things had become between us.

But I didn't know how to fix it. And right now, I didn't have the energy to try.

The hospital was a twenty-minute bus ride away. I spent the journey staring out the window, watching the city blur past. Los Angeles in the early afternoon, busy, chaotic, indifferent to the small dramas of people like me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, hoping it was Matteo. Hoping he'd calmed down enough to text me. To let me know he was okay.

But it wasn't him. Just a reminder about my shift starting in two hours.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and tried to ignore the worry gnawing at my gut.

He'd come back. He always did. Usually after a few hours of cooling off, he'd show up with some half-hearted apology and we'd pretend everything was fine until the next fight.

That's how it worked now.

The hospital came into view, tall and imposing against the skyline. I'd spent more time here than in my own apartment over the past eight years. It had become a second home. Sometimes it felt more like home than the empty apartment I shared with Matteo.

I clocked in, changed into fresh scrubs, and headed to the ER. The familiar chaos greeted me, beeping machines, hurried footsteps, the sharp smell of antiseptic.

My shift started smoothly enough. A few minor cases, a kid with a broken arm, an elderly woman with chest pains that turned out to be anxiety, a teenager who'd gotten into a fight.

Same routine. Exactly what I needed after the morning I'd had.

But then, four hours into my shift, my phone rang.

I almost didn't answer. We weren't supposed to take personal calls during shifts unless it was an emergency. But something made me pull it out of my pocket. Some instinct I couldn't name.

Unknown number.

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the answer button. It was probably spam. Or a wrong number.

But what if it was Matteo? What if he'd lost his phone again and was calling from someone else's?

I stepped into an empty hallway and answered.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end was male. Deep. Unfamiliar.

"Is this Elara Santos?"

My stomach dropped. Something in his tone, cold, professional, dangerous, made every nerve in my body go on high alert.

"Who is this?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is your brother."

The world tilted. My hand tightened around the phone.

"What about my brother?"

Then I listened to what he was about to say next.

My breath caught in my throat. For a moment, I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stand there, frozen, as the man's words sank in.

"What?”