Despite his busy schedule, he always managed to take care of things at home.
Even when he was swamped with work, he'd bring home my favorite snacks or share a couple of cold beers with me after the kids went to bed.
Even now, he was making dinner.
"Hey, honey, I made your favorite black pepper pasta. Come try it," he called out, waving a steaming plate of pasta in front of me.
In a daze, I barely registered the sight of him holding the dish.
The person and the food I once cherished felt utterly tasteless now, even somewhat nauseating.
I used a stomachache as an excuse to decline his pasta and his attempts at closeness.
My refusal seemed to hit him hard; he clearly sensed something was wrong.
Leones leaned into me, his voice filled with concern. "Sis, did I do something wrong?"
Leones had always called me "Sis" since we were kids. When he was bullied at age ten, I stood up for him bravely and protected him. Back then, he'd patted my head and gently told me, "You're younger than me, so you should stand behind me."
I didn't step back; instead, I stubbornly replied, "If you call me 'Sis,' I can protect you too."