He sits in his chair, more slender than he realizes, pouring out his soul while reading his work that seems to come so easily to him. She looks at him skeptically because sometimes it is, more difficult than he realizes, to admit that what he does may be better than what she could ever do. Either that, or she just doesn't know how to give him praise and be completely sincere about it.

As she sits there listening to her brother, the person who will always be there to talk and look after her whether she likes it or not. She cant help to think "What is she ever going to do without him."

After she gives him her promised criticism, he looks up at her with eyes filled with disappointment. Eyes that could have wilted even the happiest of roses.

This gives her a feeling of satisfaction that is unsettling. Maybe its the feeling of being his equal, not wanting him to be any better than her. Its this that she hates most about herself.

She looks into those eyes, so much like her own, only his now filled with frustration.

She gets up from the table, giving up on trying to say the right thing.