He's a gay man. He has his own relationship with bodies, with being seen, and becoming the person you were meant to be. So when he said — "Whoa bro, you can't be looking like that and be my brother" — it landed differently.

I swelled with pride from the inside.

Because I knew exactly how close I'd come to being the other version of myself.

The slow collapse in divorce doesn't announce itself. It's not dramatic. It's just what happens when you stop fighting against it. The man with the dad-bod, who drinks away his weekends. Unintentional about his life. Letting the days happen to him, instead of doing something with them.

To become that man needs no decision. No effort. Just take the path of least resistance.

Separation does that to you. You go from a full life to half a house and half the week, and the silence fills in the gaps with whatever's easiest. It feels hollow.

For you to become that man, you don't have to do anything. That's what makes it so dangerous.

The turning point I kept waiting for never came. That moment when I decided enough was enough. Didn't happen. What came instead was one Tuesday morning. Then another one. Then one day my brother said something, and I realised what had been happening the whole time. I just wasn't looking.

Identity doesn't arrive. It's an accumulation of small wins. Each day.

Does anyone else recognise that man? The default version of yourself that the divorce was building without you even considering it?