Six Questions to Write About the Sibling You Talk to Least

When did I last say anything to my brother Khôi that ran longer than "have you eaten?"

I count on my fingers. Last Tết? Last month's memorial dinner? Birthday texts don't count, because those are words on a screen, not talking.

My name is Hạnh, I am thirty-three, and I bake at a small shop. Khôi is four years older than me and lives in the same city, about half an hour away by motorbike. Neither of us is angry. There was no fight to point at. There are just two people who grew up in one house, then each fell into a different rhythm, and now talk to each other through Mom.

"Why don't you and Khôi ever talk?"

"We do, Mom."

"About what?"

"About... the memorial dinner."

Mom is quiet a moment, then asks if I have eaten. I understand she isn't asking just to ask.

If your family has someone like that too, a brother, a sister, someone you love and whose last text to you was "ok," this piece is for you. It is six questions to write about that person, from light to deep. Nobody reads them but you.

This is not a letter to patch things up, and it is not a case that siblings must be close. You can finish writing and send nothing and that is entirely fine. There is no right or wrong here, and no deadline by which you have to "make up."

Before you write: a table, a pen, and one rule

Wednesday evening, the shop long closed, I sit at the kitchen table with butter still on my hands. The small notebook I use for recipes has a few blank pages at the back. I turn to the first blank page and write: "Khôi,". Then cross it out. Write again, cross out. By the fourth time the ballpoint has run out of ink and leaves a faint line like a scratch.

I thought I couldn't write because we have nothing to talk about. But that wasn't it. I couldn't write because I was writing for him to read. Every word had to be right, light enough, impossible to misread, and before the letter had a single word in it I had already censored it three times. A person writing for a reader weighs things. A person writing for the page can be honest.

So I changed the rule. Not "you," but "he." No letter. Write about him, for me.

Ten minutes sounds long but is really about half a page. You know you did it right if, when the timer rings, you still have a sentence you wanted to write and haven't, which means you stopped at the right moment. The first time I wrote "I don't know what to write" three times in a row and spent half a page on that alone. After that, some people find the words pour out as if a tap had been opened; others get only three lines in a whole session, and that is still right. On a day too busy, one question and three lines are enough.

There is a wrong turn I took right at the start: turning it into a letter with a destination, because that felt purposeful. It is tempting because it sounds useful, but it turns the whole sitting into an exam. Just the words "not to be sent" at the top of the page made the scale in my hand go light.

Six questions, from light to deep

I wrote for four evenings in a row, one or two questions each night. The house still smelled of baked butter, the kitchen lamp was yellow, and Mom called from far away once and then let it go. The six below are the ones I wrote, in exactly this order.

Which year is he

If he walked into this room right now, how old would he be when you see him?

Hint: You don't need to choose correctly. Write the first image that comes, even if it has nothing to do with the present.

He is seventeen, standing under the plum tree in front of the house, T-shirt soaked from a football game, one hand on his bicycle. I am tiny, begging to ride on the back seat.

The small thing I still remember

Is there a small thing he once did for you that you still remember?

Hint: The smaller the better. A glass of water, a remark, a ride somewhere. If nothing comes, write "haven't remembered yet" and move on.

The night I failed an exam, he said nothing, just rode out to the end of the alley, bought me a cup of sweet mung bean pudding, and set it outside my bedroom door.

What only the two of us understand

What do the two of you share that only the two of you understand: a joke, a dish, a corner of the house?

Hint: These things rarely get written down. Writing them is a way of reminding yourself that they were real.

We both called the neighbor's dog "Old Mr. Tám," and every time he barked we would look at each other across the dinner table, holding in our laughter.

Where the distance began

If you had to guess, when did the distance between you begin?

Hint: Write what you guess, not what you conclude. If there is no day to point at, write exactly that.

Maybe from the day he went to work far away, then I moved out, each of us on a different rhythm. There is no day to point at.

What I am waiting for

Is there something you are waiting for him to do first? Have you told him, or are you still waiting?

Hint: This one easily turns into an accusation. Write slowly, and if you feel like blaming, pause for one breath and rewrite it using the word "I."

I wait for him to text first. But maybe he is waiting too. I am waiting for something he doesn't know I am waiting for.

The first sentence of an easy conversation

If a conversation could happen where nobody had to explain or apologize, what sentence would it begin with?

Hint: Choose the smallest sentence you can think of. It doesn't have to be good, and it doesn't have to be sent.

"Do you still play football these days?"

Tuesday evening, at the fifth question, I sat looking at the word "waiting" for ten minutes. I wrote it out three times, each in a different voice: an angry voice, a hurt voice, a voice pretending not to care. The third time I laughed alone, because it sounded exactly like the voice I use with Mom whenever she asks how I am: "I'm fine, Mom, nothing's wrong." It turned out I wait for him to text first the same way I wait on everyone: stay silent, then trust they know. If he does exactly the same thing, then two people are waiting for each other at the two ends of a rope that both of them are holding.

I didn't draw a lesson from it. I only wrote three words in the notebook: "we both wait." That was enough for one evening.

You know you did it right if you write down at least one detail you didn't know you still remembered, like the plum tree or the bowl of mung bean pudding. The first time, I stopped at the fourth question for a long while, left half a page blank, and went to bed. After a week, some people find the image of "him" in their head stops being one block and turns into many small pieces with color and smell; others find it feels heavier than when they began, and that is still normal. On a busy day, pick just two questions, the second and the sixth.

The wrong turn is turning the fifth question into a verdict, then reading it over and over and polishing it. It is tempting because a paragraph of blame brings instant relief. But the relief is like a sweet drink: it fades fast and leaves you thirstier. Instead, when you finish, let the notebook sit overnight and read it only once in the morning.

If you wrote and still feel nothing has changed

There are two reasons I see most often.

First: you wrote it right, but what needs to change isn't in the notebook. Writing makes things clearer, it doesn't make the other person appear. If after six questions you want to tell him one thing, try writing just one small sentence, or write a whole letter you will not send. Whether to send it, and when, is up to you.

Second: some of the questions leave you hollow, because what you are searching for isn't a detail but a real conversation. The conversation I rehearsed in my head for two weeks tells of someone who has walked this stretch. There is no right way, only the way that fits.

If between you and that person there have been insults, threats, control or violence, then this is not something to write your way into feeling lighter, and you don't have to force yourself to think of them gently. Talk to someone you trust, or to a professional. And if the sadness that comes up while you write lasts for weeks and keeps your eating and sleeping unsettled, that too is worth talking over with a professional.

Near midnight I close the notebook. The ballpoint lies beside it, truly out of ink now.

I open my phone and type into the message box exactly the last line: "Do you still play football these days?" Gray letters in an empty field, not sent.

I will decide tomorrow evening.

This article was created with AI assistance.