TO HATE IS DIVINE

The city outside my window hummed faintly, a symphony of cars, footsteps, and distant conversations rising and falling against the cool night air. Inside my apartment, the world was still, the only sound the persistent ticking of the clock on the wall. I sat at my desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the unfinished report on the screen in front of me blurring into a meaningless tangle of words.

My mind had wandered again, as it often did. Back to him.

Dorian.

It always came back to Dorian.

I couldn't help but replay the events of the past week. I'd seen him in action, watched him turn what should have been a crisis into a triumph.

We worked at the same company, though in different departments. Dorian thrived in client relations, his name practically synonymous with success. Whenever things went south, he was the person everyone called—a fixer, a hero.

That morning, I had been walking past the conference room when I noticed the tension inside. A key client, Mr. Rowland, was unhappy, his frustration cutting through the room like a knife. The account manager looked close to tears, stumbling over apologies that only seemed to irritate Rowland further.

And then Dorian arrived.

The moment he stepped into the room, the atmosphere shifted. It was like the air itself became lighter.

"Mr. Rowland," Dorian said, his voice steady, deliberate, and just warm enough to disarm. "I completely understand your concerns. If I were in your shoes, I'd feel the same way."

Rowland's glare softened ever so slightly.

Dorian continued, his body language open and relaxed. "Here's what we'll do to address this. First, we'll revisit the campaign strategy to ensure it aligns perfectly with your vision. Second, I'll personally oversee the revisions to guarantee they meet your expectations. How does that sound?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as Rowland considered this. Then, to everyone's relief, he nodded. "That sounds… reasonable."

By the end of the meeting, they were practically shaking hands like old friends. The tension had evaporated, replaced by murmurs of admiration for Dorian's poise and skill.

I stood outside the glass walls, watching him bask in the glow of their gratitude. His smile was easy, his confidence unshakable. He didn't just handle the situation—he owned it, as if calming storms and winning people over were things he did without breaking a sweat.

His charisma wasn't confined to the office, either.

Last Friday, a group of us from work went out to celebrate the completion of a major project. We ended up at a trendy rooftop bar, the city's skyline glittering around us.

As usual, Dorian was the center of attention.

He stood near the bar, drink in hand, surrounded by a group of colleagues and friends. His laugh echoed above the music, a rich, infectious sound that seemed to draw people in like moths to a flame.

"Dorian, you have to tell that story about Spain again!" someone called out, their face flushed with laughter.

Dorian grinned, setting down his glass. "Alright, but only if you promise not to cry from laughter like last time."

He launched into the tale, his voice animated, his gestures perfectly timed to keep his audience enthralled. The group hung on his every word, their laughter ringing out in waves.

I lingered on the outskirts, nursing a beer I didn't particularly want. No one noticed me, and I didn't make an effort to join the conversation. What would I even say?

From where I stood, I could see the admiration in their faces, hear the unspoken awe in their voices.

"You're incredible, man," one of them said, clapping Dorian on the back. "How do you make everything look so easy?"

Dorian shrugged, a modest smile playing on his lips. "I don't know about easy," he said, though the glint in his eye suggested he was used to hearing such praise.

I drained the rest of my beer and slipped away to the quieter side of the bar. From a distance, I watched the group continue to orbit around him, their energy electric, their focus unwavering.

Even when he wasn't around, his presence was impossible to escape.

A few weeks ago, I bumped into someone we'd both known in college—a woman named Rachel. She greeted me warmly, but it didn't take long for the conversation to shift.

"Leonard, it's so good to see you!" she said, her smile wide. "How's your brother doing? He's still amazing, isn't he?"

The enthusiasm in her voice made me tense, but I forced a polite nod.

"I mean, he's so charismatic," she continued, oblivious to my discomfort. "Every time I see him, he's doing something incredible. I don't know how he does it!"

I muttered something about Dorian being well, but the sting lingered. It didn't matter what I had achieved, how hard I had worked. In the eyes of the world, Dorian was the one worth celebrating.

From where I stood, Dorian seemed untouchable.

He wasn't just charismatic—he was magnetic. People gravitated toward him without hesitation, drawn to his effortless confidence, his infectious charm. Whether he was solving a crisis at work, telling stories at a party, or simply entering a room, he had a way of making everyone feel like they belonged.

And that, perhaps, was the cruelest part.

Because no matter how hard I tried, I could never match that. I couldn't light up a room the way he did or inspire people to see the best in themselves. I was kind, intelligent, hardworking—but those qualities didn't seem to matter.

To the world, Dorian was the golden twin, the one who shone the brightest. And me? I was the shadow, always there but never noticed.

I wanted to hate him for it. Some nights, I even tried to convince myself that I did. But the truth was harder to swallow: he wasn't trying to overshadow me. He was just… Dorian.

That was what I resented most—that his perfection wasn't an act. It was simply who he was, and no matter how much I wanted to deny it, I couldn't.