I knew my little brother Gabe hated change, but I didn’t think my leaving would break him.

He clung to me that night in the diner like he was memorizing the shape of my arms. He didn’t say much—he rarely does—but he kept tracing the hem of my sleeve with his fingers, over and over. That’s his way of staying calm.

“Text me when you get to your dorm,” Mom said, trying to keep it upbeat. Gabe didn’t say goodbye. He just buried his face in my shoulder and mumbled something about the sky being too loud.

A week into college, I was doing okay. I mean, I cried in the shower twice and forgot my student ID in the laundry room once, but that’s normal, right? I’d been texting Mom and Dad, even sent Gabe videos of squirrels on campus—he loves squirrels. No reply, but I figured they were just helping him adjust.

Then came the call.

I was on my way to class when I saw “Dad” flashing on my screen. I almost didn’t pick up. But something in my gut told me to.

“Hey, what’s—”

“He hasn’t spoken in four days,” Dad cut in. His voice cracked. “Won’t eat. Won’t sleep. He just… sits in your room and lines up your old notebooks.”

I stopped walking. My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might throw up right there on the sidewalk.

“We’re trying everything,” he added. “Therapist, weighted blanket, even your perfume on his pillow.”

My roommate passed me on the path and smiled. I waved, but I wasn’t really there.

“Sweetheart, I know this is your time now,” Dad said. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

I stared at the dorm tower in front of me. My psych textbook was digging into my hip.

And all I could think about was the last thing Gabe said to me—the sentence I hadn’t understood until just now: “The sky is too loud.”

The next morning, I boarded a bus back home. It wasn’t an easy decision; part of me felt like I was giving up on my own dreams. But another part—a louder, heavier part—knew I couldn’t stay away while Gabe was falling apart.

When I walked through the door, the house felt different. Quiet, like it was holding its breath. Mom hugged me tightly, her eyes red-rimmed. “He’s upstairs,” she whispered.

I climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking under my weight. The hallway smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser Mom always used to help Gabe relax. His bedroom door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, I could see him sitting cross-legged on my old bed, surrounded by my things. My notebooks were lined up perfectly along the edge of the mattress, their spines facing outward like soldiers standing at attention.

“Gabe?” I said softly.

His head snapped up, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. Then, without warning, he launched himself at me, wrapping his arms around my waist so tightly I almost lost my balance. Tears streamed down his face as he buried his head against my chest.

“I’m here,” I murmured, stroking his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For hours, we stayed like that—me sitting on the floor with Gabe curled up in my lap, rocking gently. He didn’t speak, but I didn’t need him to. His silence spoke volumes: fear, loneliness, and a deep ache that I hadn’t fully understood until now.

That night, after he finally fell asleep, I sat in the kitchen with Mom and Dad. They looked exhausted, shadows under their eyes betraying weeks of worry. “What happened?” I asked quietly. “Why did this start?”

Mom sighed, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. “It’s hard to explain. You know how sensitive he is. When you left, it was like… like a piece of him went with you.”

Dad nodded. “We tried everything, but nothing worked. The therapist said it might be sensory overload or anxiety manifesting in unusual ways. But honestly, we think it’s more than that. He feels abandoned.”

I swallowed hard, guilt settling heavy in my chest. “I didn’t mean to leave him behind.”

“You had to go,” Mom said firmly. “This isn’t your fault. We just… we hoped he’d adjust faster.”

Over the next few days, I threw myself into helping Gabe heal. I rearranged my schedule to spend more time with him, reading his favorite books aloud and drawing pictures of squirrels in the margins. Slowly, he began to open up again. He started eating small bites of food and sleeping for longer stretches. One afternoon, he even ventured outside to sit on the porch swing with me, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky.

But something still felt off. Every time I mentioned going back to school, Gabe would retreat into himself, his hands shaking as he traced patterns on his jeans. It was clear he wasn’t ready to let me go yet.

One evening, as we lay side by side on his bed staring at the ceiling, I decided to broach the subject. “Gabe,” I started hesitantly, “do you remember what you said to me before I left? About the sky being too loud?”

He nodded silently, his gaze fixed on the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling.

“What did you mean by that?” I asked gently.

After a long pause, he whispered, “It’s like… every sound gets bigger when you’re not here. Like the world is yelling at me.”

My throat tightened. “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t realize it would feel like that for you.”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, turning to look at me. “But can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you’ll come back. No matter what.”

I reached out and squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

The turning point came unexpectedly. A week later, while sorting through some old boxes in the attic, I stumbled upon a stack of journals from my teenage years. Curious, I flipped through them and found countless entries dedicated to Gabe—memories of our adventures together, sketches of squirrels we’d seen in the park, and promises I’d made to always protect him. As I read, an idea began to form in my mind.

That night, I gathered everyone in the living room. “I have a plan,” I announced. “What if I create a video series for Gabe? Something he can watch whenever he misses me.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “A video series?”

“Yeah,” I explained. “I’ll record short clips of my day-to-day life at school, show him the squirrels, introduce him to my friends, maybe even film some classes. It’ll be like I’m still here, just… farther away.”

To my surprise, Gabe lit up at the suggestion. For the first time in weeks, he smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “Can we start tonight?” he asked eagerly.

So we did. Over the next few days, I filmed dozens of videos, capturing moments both big and small. In one clip, I introduced him to my roommate, who promised to send him squirrel-themed postcards. In another, I showed him my favorite spot on campus—a quiet bench under a tree where I often studied. Each video ended with the same message: “Remember, no matter where I am, I’m always thinking of you.”

By the time I returned to school, Gabe seemed more at peace. He still missed me, of course, but knowing that he could press play and see my face anytime made the distance feel less daunting—for both of us.

Months passed, and though I missed home terribly, I found joy in sending updates to Gabe. And then, one day, I received a package in the mail. Inside was a handmade journal filled with drawings and notes from Gabe. On the first page, he’d written: “Thank you for showing me the sky isn’t so loud anymore.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I realized how far we’d both come. Gabe had learned to cope with my absence, and I had discovered a new way to stay connected—not just to him, but to the person I wanted to be.

Life will always bring challenges, and sometimes those challenges will test the bonds we hold most dear. But love has a way of finding solutions, even in the toughest times. Whether it’s through a hug, a promise, or a simple video, the connections we nurture can bridge any gap.

If this story touched your heart, please share it with someone who needs a reminder of the power of love and resilience. And don’t forget to hit that like button—it means the world to me!