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Idris
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Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado

I used to think my older brother was just… weirdly protective.
Like anytime we crossed the road, he’d grab my wrist way too tight. Not hold my hand—my wrist. Firm.
I’d always complain. “Relax, I’m not a child.”
He never explained, just loosened his grip a bit and kept walking.
Years later, we were going through old photos with my mom.
There was one of us as kids at a busy street. I noticed my brother holding my wrist the exact same way.
I joked, “You’ve always been dramatic.”
My mom went quiet for a second, then said, “He started doing that after you slipped out of his hand once.”
Apparently, I ran into the road chasing a ball.
A car braked just in time.
After that, he never held my hand again.
He held my wrist. Tight enough that I couldn’t disappear.
And now I get it… that grip wasn’t control, it was love and I’ll never stop loving him for it.
English
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado
Idris retuiteado



















