Light was usually a sign of hope. Of life. Of new beginnings and new stories. His wife was sleeping, resting her head on top of his naked shoulder, hair untied and spread in as many directions as the rays of light that shone outside the window. He looked at her, peacefully dreaming, and moved his head to the side to kiss her forehead. No, he wouldn't kiss her. She might wake up, and he wanted to delay the day as much as possible, at least for her. He had been awake for a long time now, since the day outside was still nothing more than dark and shadows. Now, the clock was ticking faster. Tick tock. Tick tock. He let go of his wife carefully and she smiled, grabbing his hand before he could leave the bed, looking through the curtain of sleep. He smiled back and finally kissed her. Then, buying himself some time, he took a shower and got dressed. He was not hungry and there was no time for breakfast either way. He consulted his wristwatch and stood in the hall. Small boots, tiny shoes, were lined up by the door, filthy with earth and dust. The signs of yesterday's play still written all over them. His son, taken care of by the mother, was sitting on the floor, unaware of his observation and apparently unaware of the world around him. He seemed happy.

He felt himself being held by the back, and her perfume filled his senses, making his nose sting. Comfortable, familiar. Right.

"You are going to be late." She warned him tenderly, a warm whisper.

He felt her head placed on his shoulder and knew it was time to go. Time is relative, but it does not stop moving, nevertheless.

He listened to the words the doctor was saying and the thoughts in his head contrasted with the immaculate shine of the consulting room. Strange, that all the chaos and desperation inside his head could still be real in that sort of place. As he heard the words 'brain cancer' and 'inoperable' it seemed to him that the world should not be tidy and clean. That the world should not continue to spin as if no change was in order. In his mind, the world should grieve and ache and bend itself into a ball of pain and desperation. In his mind, no one should have to die alone.

He sat in his car, the paper dictating his future – well, the lack of one – in his hand and allowed himself to be selfish. It didn't matter anymore, that would be his last selfish act. And he cried the tears of a million men, the tears of a million lives he would not have a chance to live, a chance to see and rejoice with. The weddings he would miss, the worries and tantrums of his boy he would never have the chance to deal with, the greyness in his wife's hair he would never have the chance to brush and kiss. He cried, because at least that he could do. To all the rest, he was useless. Just a useless body ready to become a corpse.

He imagined his boy, bringing home a girlfriend to a deceased father and a heartbroken mother and realised there was at least one thing about that he could change, one thing before he started to become a ragged piece of fabric, a torpid mind inside a worthless body. He picked up the phone and dialled the number with trembling hands.

"Charlie?" he called, as the phone was answered without a sound of recognition. "It's me." There was really no need saying who. His twin brother would recognise his voice, so close to his own anywhere. "So, are you alright?"

He knew well he wasn't. He never was. Gambling and losing had taken its toll on his brother, but he refused to be helped. Every time he saw him was like seeing a part of himself losing its course. It was strange. It was demolishing. But sometimes, the people we care the most follow paths of their own and they burn bridges, and the current we have to cross is too strong, and we are too weak. He hadn't given up on his brother. He had just made what he had asked of him. Leave him alone. He asked his brother how he was and, as usual, he lied. But he could see the lie on his voice and on the implicit request he made after. 'Could do with some more pocket money though.'

"How much?" he asked.

"Too much." was his brother's reply. It always was.

He didn't have all the money his brother needed, but he had something. An idea that had taken form in his head, when the head ache and the worries about his future had begun. A reckless, insane idea. The only thing to do.

"Charlie I got the results. We need to meet."

His brother complied.

He had chosen a small café, a quiet place, where the sound of the spoon on the porcelain was audible and the untouched toast was cold even before it got to the table. His brother sat in front of him and the face he saw was his own. His own face if he had taken another course in life. God, how he wished he could have helped him before it had gotten to this. Now, he couldn't even help himself and time to make amends was fast fading, fast evaporating, like smoke from a cigarette, like sand on a hourglass, wasting away.

They moved to the locker room, looking at each other without a word. It was hard enough to do it without making it feel even more palpable, real. He leaned against the wall as his brother shed himself from the person he was. Hair was all over the washbasin, ripped off with scissors and resentment. Seeing it falling like that was like watching his future self, losing hair and life. He had read somewhere once that there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance, but right now it seemed he had skipped straight to anger and depression. There was no use to bargain, a waste of time and strength. Acceptance seemed like something he could do, with time.

His clothes fit only slightly loose on his brother. The ironed shirt and jacket were like a revival potion. His brother seemed younger. It was strange to look at the man in front of him and feel like he was looking at his own reflection. But his brother would live and he would die. And, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder, a sign of encouragement, he felt it. Acceptance. He had made a wise choice. To those who would stay. In the end, they were the ones who mattered.

Charlie walked away after the silent goodbye, where he had promised his brother it was going to be alright. He didn't know that for sure, but Joe needed to believe in it. And he needed to convince himself of it.

The roads he walked were familiar, but he hadn't rummaged through them for so long that it all seemed new and fresh. He wished now he had taken the life his brother had when it wasn't a favour. Before it became something his brother needed him to do, something he had no choice but to do. A career, a family, a path of his own. Alongside his brother, not with the ghost of what he had been. By doing this, by asking him this, his brother wasn't just providing a future with a father to his son; he was providing a future to him. How could he have said no? He had been a failure to everyone. It was now time to make his life matter.

He stood by the door, looking at the green paint, when his brother's wife opened it. His brother's wife, his wife. She looked at him, a smile lingering on her lips for a second. And then, she knew. He saw it, as her expression changed and she recognised that he was not her husband. He was not the man she had married with, she had laid with, the man she loved. She took a moment to make sense of it. As she sat down on the threshold and their eyes locked on each other he could see the pain and understanding, all at once. He could see the way she accepted. And how, no matter what, she forgave him.

The little boy came running from inside the house, tugging his trousers. A strange feeling. He held him in his arms and repeated the words he had said to his brother. 'It's gonna be alright.' He wasn't sure it would but that was all he could do to believe it. And, in truth, there was no other choice. That little boy would never know how he had lost a father and Charlie would, in a very orthodox way, find out what it felt like to be loved at last.