Sometimes I worry about my brother. I read his blog, read the words that were written so intensely, conveying feelings of despair and sadness. I think to myself: he’s so young to feel like this. His life has barely begun! But then I remember that there’s no exact age to be heartbroken, no exact age to feel the pain of betrayal. And it’s in these moments whenI wish I could take it all away and make him see the trees and think they’re beautiful again. But I can’t. There’s nothing I can do but be here for him, somehow, digitally from 6,089 miles away. And that kills me.