She calls him her older brother, though they aren’t related at all.
He always hugs her, makes her feel safe. Forehead kisses, like butterflies brushing against her hair.
He gives advice while smiling, hypocritical advice that he himself doesn’t follow but wants her to keep in mind. “Because I did the wrong things, and I have regrets,” he told her.
He says the same things often, forgetting that they’ve talked about it before.
He talks to her in a way that really anyone else would identify as condescending, at first glance. But she never feels that way, not really, because he is her older brother and he calls her his baby sister.
She loves him.
His laugh — she loves to hear him laugh.
Even when she knows he’s laughing at her.
Soft hair and a beautiful smile, long thin frame that seems almost as if any second it might collapse, he smells like fruit and flowers and baby shampoo.
He makes eye contact when he talks; he has dark, inquisitive eyes framed by long eyelashes.
He tells her that the birds he sometimes sees remind him of her.
He says that he loves her. She wants to believe him.
written for daily prompt: meaningless