Love you broh

*Queens, New York – Present Day*

Peter stood on the fire escape of his Astoria apartment, the skyline of Manhattan distant and cold. The night air carried a metallic chill, the kind that hinted at an early frost. He lit a cigarette, the flicker of flame catching in his eyes. Below, the murmur of late-night traffic and the occasional wail of a siren rose. A street lamp flickered nearby, pulsing like a dying heartbeat—its glow weak, uncertain.

His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. One new message. From Dan.

He didn’t open it.

***

*Brooklyn, Two Years Earlier*

“You know I would’ve taken a bullet for you.”

Peter’s voice, once familiar and warm, had a crackle of disbelief now. He stood in the doorway of Dan’s apartment, fists clenched, jaw tight. It wasn’t the anger that hit him hardest—it was the betrayal in his friend’s eyes.

“How could you do this to me?” Peter asked.

Dan forced a breath. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh? Because what I think is that my best friend kept a secret. From me.”

Dan swallowed hard. “You said you wanted a new life.”

“I never asked for this.”

“I thought I was helping,” Dan muttered.

“You mean helping yourself.” Peter’s voice shook. “You could’ve stopped it. You could’ve told me. But you played blind.”

Peter’s voice was low. “I was trying to be fair.”

“Fair?” Peter stepped forward. “You’re not a goddamn judge. Who the hell made you the referee in my relationship?”

“I just wanted to understand her side too.”

“I told you—I never asked you a damn thing !”

Dan’s shoulders dropped. “I needed to know the truth.”

“So you knew,” Peter i hissed. “And you said nothing.”

“One night I saw your texts. I chose to stay quiet.”

“Then you’re the real hypocrite.”

Dan looked at the ground. “Let me tell you what happened.”

“I don’t want your stories.”

“I’m telling it anyway.”

***

It had been one of those sticky summer nights, when even the ceiling fan seemed exhausted. I had been nursing a fever, a headache pounding behind my eyes. Joyce messaged me. Small talk. Then the pause. Then she sent a voice memo.

“I think I’m in love with you, Dan,” she whispered.

My chest was clenched. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, breath held like it might drown out the sound of her voice. Shame, confusion, and an electric thrill surged all at once. I didn’t reply. Not that night. Not the next.

The morning after, she messaged again. Said it was a mistake. That she was still in love with you. That she was tired. Confused.

So I made a decision.

I would forget it. For you. For her. For the friendship that had kept me afloat when my own family splintered years ago.

But forgetting and burying are not the same.

***

Joyce and Peter were slipping, slowly, like ice on a roof. Dan watched it all—Peter venting late into the night, Joyce growing colder, shorter in her replies. He told himself he was helping. A buffer. A translator.

But late at night, Joyce messaged again. Not flirty. Just... present.

“I feel like I can breathe when I talk to you,” she wrote once. “You don’t try to fix me. You just listen.”

They met for coffee. One time. Midtown. Neutral ground.

She wore a gray coat, her hair tucked behind one ear. She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to thank him or cry.

“Maybe in another life,” she said, smiling sadly.

They talked about Peter. About work. About nothing. She reached for her cup, fingers trembling slightly.

“Do you ever feel like you're disappearing?” she asked.

“All the time,” Dan replied. And that was the truth.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t lean forward. But he wanted to. He told himself it wasn’t betrayal. That it was just care. That silence was a kind of kindness.

In truth, he had started to love the power of being needed by both of them.

***

Peter found the texts. Dan never knew how.

That night, Peter showed up unannounced. Wet from the rain. Breath ragged. Hurt beyond words.

“You let me love someone who didn’t love me. And you let me come to you—every time—while she was telling you what I never heard.”

Dan didn’t deny it.

“I thought silence was mercy,” he said, voice barely audible.

Peter’s face contorted. “No. Silence was a choice. And you chose *you*.”

Dan’s façade cracked. “I didn’t want to lose you both.”

“But you did. Because you were a coward.”

“I kept quiet for peace. I didn't have a choice. ”

“No. You kept quiet because it gave you power. You liked knowing more than me. You liked being the safe one. The ‘good guy.’”

Dan stepped back. The words cut, more than any punch could’ve.

“You’re not my brother,” Peter said. “You’re just another man who used love as a cover for control.”

And then he left.

***

Weeks passed. Then Joyce called.

“I didn’t mean to ruin everything,” she said. “I was confused.”

“You said you loved me,” Dan replied.

“I thought I did. But maybe I just wanted someone to understand me.”

“Then why didn’t you tell Peter the truth?”

“Because I thought you would.”

Her voice cracked. “I thought you were brave enough.”

“I thought I was protecting him.”

“No,” she said. “You were protecting yourself. From the fallout.”

And in that moment, Dan realized he’d become exactly what he never wanted to be.

Joyce hung up. And never called again.

***

Now Dan lives alone. His apartment is clean, curated, lifeless. The friends are gone. The old threads of messages unread. He goes to work in Midtown, says the right things, smiles at the right times.

But at night, when the city is just a glow behind his curtains, he thinks of Peter.

On the night they broke into a rooftop pool in Queens, laughing until security chased them off.

Of the time Peter lent him rent money without a second thought.

Of the last words Peter said: *You chose you.*

Dan checks his phone sometimes. Reads old texts. Wonders how a moment of silence can echo forever.

He replays Joyce’s voice memo in his mind. Always that whisper: “I think I’m in love with you.”

He wonders if he was ever in love with her—or just with the idea of being the center of something.

And he never answers Peter’s message.

He already knows what it says.

***

In a bar off 6th Avenue, Dan sees someone who looks like Peter. For a second, he almost waves. Then the man turns, and it’s not him.

He pays his tab. Walks out into the cold.

Above him, the skyline is sharp again. Unforgiving. Honest.

He lights a cigarette.

The streetlamp above him flickers once—then dies.

Only silence.

The weight of the truth he thought he could bury, and his eyes turned to the sky looking for redemption.