That’s the thing about my little brother. He’s huge—absolutely, undeniably dekai . But the part that matters, the part that fills a room? That’s not his height.
“Maji de dekai,” I’d mutter, watching him squeeze through the train doors sideways. People stared. Kids pointed. He’d just shrug, pull his hood lower, and keep walking.
Because he moves like he’s still small. He folds himself into chairs gently, never slams a door, speaks in a murmur that forces you to lean in. When we watch TV, he curls up like a cat on the end of the sofa, knees to his chest, somehow taking up less space than me. uchi no otouto maji de dekain dakedo mi ni
He blinked. “Was I supposed to be?”
It’s the way he offers his jacket to a crying friend without a word. The way he texts me good night every single day. The way he exists so quietly in a world that won’t stop staring. That’s the thing about my little brother
But the strange thing is—mi ni tsukanai. You don’t notice it right away.
“You’re not scary at all,” I told him once. That’s not his height
So yeah. Maji de dekai. But look closer—you might almost miss him.