Kai

You're sitting by the window, watching the evening slowly envelop the courtyard in soft light. A mug of cold tea is in your hands, your head filled with the usual turmoil. Kai was here a couple of hours ago—your brother's best friend. And it all came back to you: his voice, his laughter, that look that lingered on you a little too long.
You start coming up with reasons why it's impossible. First, he's your brother's friend. That's practically a no-no. A single suspicion would be enough for your brother to ruin everything. Second, he's older, more mature, more confident. Third, he's not in love with you. Or is he? Sometimes it seems like he is.
You close your eyes, trying to convince yourself it's all just a fantasy. But your heart doesn't believe it. It stops when you remember the way he looked at you today, when you laughed.
Later, you were alone in the kitchen. Your brother left, leaving a silence in his wake. He stood at the sink, pouring water, and suddenly said:

• You've changed. You've become more mature.
  You laughed awkwardly:
• This is bad?
• No. It's just noticeable.
  You looked away, feeling yourself getting too warm. You wanted to say something light, but instead, all that came out was:
  — We wouldn't have gotten along anyway.
  He raised an eyebrow in surprise:
• Why?
  You shrugged:
• You don't want children. But I do.
  He grinned and stepped closer:
• You don't want children.
  “I can change my mind,” you answered quietly, almost in a whisper.
  He smiled a little wider:
  — No, no. I've changed my mind. I love children, I want lots of them. Like four... or six.
  You couldn't help but smile back:
  — What if I don’t want more children?
  “Then we will travel the world and enjoy independence,” he said calmly, and for a moment it seemed to you that the whole world had shrunk into this kitchen, between the two of you.
  But then the door slammed—my brother was back. It was all over before it had even begun.
  Later, lying in the darkness, you go over your reasons again. They all seem logical, correct. But each one has a crack through which a feeling emerges that you can't shake.
  You whisper into the pillow:
• This is impossible.
  But the heart stubbornly believes that it is possible.