Chapter Text
“Alright, class dismissed. Please remember to review chapters nine through twelve for the next week,” the teacher announces in his monotonous, nasal voice, already gathering his supplies.
The bell rings, jolting you out of your post-math daze. You discreetly wipe away the faint trace of spit from the corner of your mouth and sit up straighter, rolling the tension out of your shoulders.
Man, what a bore. But, at least it’s time for lunch now!
While the rest of the kids pour out of the classroom and towards the cafeteria like a flood of starving beasts from the maw of Tartarus, you remain seated at your desk. The hunger tugs at you; were it not for a certain… ahem, privilege, you’d be spearheading the stampede, ready to tear into the food before it even hit a tray.
Your hair sways, the adorable crabapple hairclips in it clinking, as you bend over to take out the delicious, homemade meal from your school bag—courtesy of your dearest elder brother, of course—and proudly, almost ceremoniously, put it before you.
You peek under the lid of your lunchbox, the steam rolling out lazily. It’s vegetable chow mein, crispy wontons, peanut sauce, hoisin sauce, and a few expertly wrapped tofu spring rolls. You grin, the cutesy decorative toothpicks impossible to miss, tiny hearts and clouds sitting on top.
It smells downright divine.
Your eyes twinkle with elvish glee at the not-so-humble feast, saliva pooling inside of your mouth quicker than rain in a clogged gutter. If anything deserves your unwavering faith, it’s definitely your elder brother’s cooking. No one does it like him.
Humming, you take off the lid, sighing at the lovingly written message on the comically huge sticky note attached to the underside:
‘Big lunch for a squirt with a big heart and spirit! Oh, y’know, so you have enough energy to ace that tricky chemistry test we studied for together, especially after suffering through all those crazy mnemonics last night; I’m convinced they’ve rewired my brain, forever. Still, you did everything right, you’ve earned your confidence, so don’t worry too much! You’ll do great, pips.
Aaaand, I suppose you can also think of this as my way of buttering you up before the big game today. I need you yelling your head off when we face Crestwood—they won’t know what hit them! Isn’t that right, my little lucky charm? One cheer from you and it’s like I’m unstoppable.
I’ll be waiting for you after school. —Your coolest, the most dashing and awesome big brother.’
“Dummy,” you snort, mumbling under your breath. Your eyes shift towards the little doodle of a sunny apple with its arms akimbo, grinning at you impishly. You grin right back at it, taking a purple gel pen and drawing it a rather distinguished mustache, top hat, and a silly monocle. You take a picture of your small masterpiece and send it to Caleb. He immediately views it.
You: Behold, it’s Lord Appleton. Or, Monsieur Applestash? Either way, he sends his regards! He’s managed to deliver the lunch to me safely.
Caleb: Haha, guess bad humor runs in the family—my baby sister’s just as cheesy and incorrigible as me. Now, put your phone down and eat up before it gets cold, silly.
A ripple of giggles escapes past your lips. Ah, really. Caleb never fails to brighten your day. Something about him, be it his smile or his whole presence, is just so radiant, warm. It’s like sunlight cramming itself into your heart each time you see him, expanding it. It nearly hurts.
Chopsticks raised and ready, you eye that scrumptious goodness laid out in front of you, but just as you’re about to take the first bite, a bony hand smashes down against the wood of your desk, making you flinch.
The temperature drops sharply, cold air of unease pressing in from all sides, raising goosebumps.
You frown.
“Hah, seriously.”
A familiar shadow takes shape over your sticker-adorned lunchbox, the glittery assortment of apples, dog pawprints, and airplanes losing their shine against its malicious gloom. Drawing near, it hits you in the nose with its overpowering, artificial posh-stink, sneering, “Tell me, freak, can you get any lamer than this?”
And here we go again.
You shrink in on yourself, glaring downwards, pulling the lunchbox into your arms. Pulling your fragile heart into your arms.
“What’s in there today, huh? Mashed peas and a juice box? Baby formula?”
You dare to look up, and of course, it’s her—Jenny, the biggest bitch under the sun in the year above you.
She tosses her dark, luscious hair to the side, squinting down at you through her thick eyelashes like she’s trying to remember when she last saw something so tragically out of place. Her eyes narrow with irritation, lingering on your carefully braided hair.
Her jealousy is palpable.
“Give me that.” She snatches the lunchbox away from you, greedily grabbing at and tasting Caleb’s precious cooking for herself, sauce dripping past her lips. “Mm, he’s so perfect at everything he does,” she sighs out, closing her eyes in ecstasy, a strange, perverted expression on her face. You recoil.
Be it money, looks, popularity, or influence, she has it. You don’t.
But what you do happen to have, what she chases after ever so feverishly since last November, what she yearns for, thirsts for like a parched, half-dead mongrel licking at the dry, cracked ground in hopes of discovering a shallow puddle, is your big brother’s undivided attention. His concern, his touch, his compassion—things that you have, that you were practically born with. And she, she despises you for it. For having something she doesn’t. For having him, a piece of him.
But you don’t care. You don’t need her to like you.
Just look at her, so desperate, how she’s scarfing your lunch down like a wild animal just because her crush touched it.
Amusement flickers across your expression as you watch her eat.
Frankly, it's fun watching this sorry excuse for a woman get rejected, ignored, and humiliated over and over again, no matter how much she crawls over him, brushing her disgusting witch hooks over his bare biceps, no matter how much she shakes her fat tits in his face, or shows off her dirty money—nothing works. Because his beautiful eyes never wander past you. You’re the current center of his world—not her, never her.
It’s you he picks up after school, every day without fail, letting you hold on tight, sitting snugly right behind him, as you two speed off on his beaten-up bike. It’s you for whom he kneels on the dusty ground in his new pants to tie your shoelaces. It’s you, you’re the one who he spoils rotten with tasty snacks, praises, and warm hugs.
You’re not just an afterthought. You’re his first choice, his priority—the apple of his eye.
You’re his home.
His family.
His… constant.
And it feels good. It feels so damn good knowing that. It fills you with joy. Such immense, unadulterated joy.
No.
Joy is too innocent a word for this.
Gratification.
It’s something so ruinous, honest, and stifling that whenever you try to think too hard about it, about all its whys and hows, you begin to choke. It coats your tongue with slime and the forbidden, a black plaque of voracity, taking control of it, urging it to spew all those sweet, twisted words sitting in the back of your mind that would surely lead you to the realization of your deepest, darkest desires.
Yet, you resist. You must.
After all, there’s no way it is going to stay like this forever. One small victory over one foolish woman doesn’t guarantee the next will go the same way.
You’re not always going to be his number one.
The only one.
And, you know that. You understand that. You… came to terms with that. That’s just how normal things normally go in this totally normal world.
Even though your heart and soul ache for otherwise.
You catch yourself. A wave of shame washes over you like a wildfire racing through dry grass. Scalding, yet somehow icy in its horror.
It's not your place to think like that. To dream like that. Just, just what the hell is wrong with you?!
Heat creeps up your neck and floods your cheeks, your palms going slick with sweat. Your stomach clenches in on itself, hollow and lousy with self-loathing.
You, thinking like that about your own brother. How sickening.
“Hey, Jenny…,” you finally begin, trying to pull yourself back into the present, opening your eyes, the angelic shine in them disappearing. “Could you please return my—"
“Shut up, you fucking weirdo,” she spits out, munching still, ignoring your poor attempt at standing up for yourself, and continues her usual spiel, setting the lunchbox down, “You must really like it, huh? Getting coddled like some fucking toddler all the time.”
“Hah, what?” you choke back in shock—she’s more vulgar and straightforward than usual today; what’s her damage?
“Spoiled little fuck.”
Your face burns hotter.
Hold back. Hold the fuck back.
You can’t punch her. You can’t cry either.
That’s not what good little sisters do.
Glaring back at her, dead-eyed, you try to endure her scathing words in silence, just like you always do. Because you’re a nice kid. You don’t get into fights.
Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Truthfully, it’s only a part of it. You know why you’re really letting this happen despite wanting to tear her head off.
“You heard me.” She jabs you in the forehead. “You know I’m right. You’re making him jump around you like some little servant. No, he’s basically your unpaid turbo nanny on the verge of a nasty burnout at this point, taken advantage of, constantly worried that his snotty-nosed brat will shit itself at any given moment. Waiting for your next meltdown over a glass of spilled milk.”
You clench your fists, lips parting, tears stinging your eyes. Words don’t come out. Those damn words you want to say so badly don’t come out.
It hits a bit too close to home.
Today, the shame doesn’t just linger—it floods in, messy and sudden, sitting heavy in your gut like a piece of lead, until even her nastiest of accusations sound true to your ears.
“Seriously, does self-awareness just not apply to you? All of this at your age, aren’t you embarrassed? Grow the fuck up already.”
You try to frown harder, grimacing.
Take it. You just have to take it. You don’t have the right to tell her off.
She sighs dramatically at your misty-eyed glare, resting her cheek against her palm in a false worry, her tone suddenly turning sugary, tinged with sleazy mock-concern. “Oh, don’t be so sensitive, I’m just trying to teach you to do better. You know very well that Caleb’s too nice sometimes. Some people—leechy little types—cling to that kindness like it’s owed to them. They take, and take, and take. Parasites, truly.”
You do. You are a parasite. You’re aware.
She walks around your desk, stopping right behind you with a practiced grace. She places her hands on your shoulders, like a doting stepmother would while posing her child for a school photo, digging her way into your flesh, threats buried beneath her manicured fingertips. “Don’t you ever wonder if maybe—juuust maybe—he’d be better off doing something other than circling around you all the time? I mean, he’s a senior now. Shouldn’t he be going out with his friends, meeting new people, maybe even falling in love? That’s what normal teenagers do. But instead, he’s stuck playing chauffeur, cheerleader, father, and emotional crutch. It’s sweet, really—it is. But at some point, don’t you think he deserves more than that? Don’t you want your big brother to be happy?”
Of course you do. You’d do anything to make your big brother happy. You want him to be the happiest person in the whole wide world.
Jenny leans down, even closer than before, right next to your ear. Her fingers comb through your hair, picking out your favorite hairclips, slowly sliding them out. One by one. “He’s been stuck in that miserable house of yours long enough—putting up with your clinginess, your mess, and whatever nightmare circus passes for a family in your world. What more do you expect him to sacrifice? His whole life? Just how much more does he need to give you, do for you, before you're satisfied?”
At this, a wet sob tears itself out of your throat. “He doesn’t—, I’m not—!” you growl, trying to stand up, the grip on your self-restraint slipping, desperate to defend yourself, him, the sincerity of your love, and your broken little family, but you’re roughly pushed back down into your seat.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to help you here? You’re so incompetent. So stupid.”
Her words flow smoothly, like a knife dragging its blade across something delicate. Ripping it open, cleanly, precisely. “Unless, of course,” she muses, voice sweet enough to curdle, gathering all of your hairclips and letting them fall like trash beside your chair, “you’re not as dumb as you pretend to be.” You flinch, trembling. “Maybe all this helplessness is just an act.” Then—crack. She stomps them into the floor, watching your face with glee as the plastic snaps under her heel. “And if that’s the case,” she purrs, “then there’s only one explanation left for your behavior, isn’t there?” Her smirk grows sharper, eyes gleaming as yours widen. “You disgusting freak.”
A certain coldness crashes through you, snatching the rest of the warmth from your skin. You go pale, breath catching, and the world tilts slightly off-center.
“You’re so obvious. Did you really think that no one would ever notice? The way you cling to him and stare at him…”
The air turns thick, your throat tightens, and the pounding in your ears drowns out everything but the rising panic inside your chest.
“Stealing all of the love letters meant for him, trashing them in obvious spots around the school for all his admirers to see.”
It’s revolting. Gross. Depraved.
“Demanding to sit on top of his lap while he’s talking to someone else, pretending to fall asleep so that you can press your face into the side of his neck. And I have receipts, you know.”
You told yourself that you’ll forget and move on. Forget. Forget. Forget!
You told yourself that there had never been times when you kneeled in front of the bathroom door and shakily peeked in through the tight, little keyhole while he was inside, enveloped by steam like a war god wandering through the fog on the battlefield, hot water dripping down his flawless body. That there had never been times when you secretly recorded his rough, morning voice—the scratchy rumble he always lets out against the crown of your head when you cuddle up to him in the kitchen, asking for a big breakfast, included—and blasted it into your cheap headphones while fingering yourself open under the blanket. That there had never been times when you kept on taking bites out of random snacks and then insisted on him tasting them too, purposefully directing the spot your lips touched towards his, watching him obediently open his mouth and complete the indirect kiss. No, there hadn’t been such times. No.
You’re not a freak.
You’re his sweet baby sister.
You’re not like Jenny!
It can’t be.
You aren’t, right?
Just as the tension inside you coils to a breaking point, as the mirror turns, reflecting your own hypocrisy back at you, perhaps one that’s even worse than Jenny’s, she steps back, a too-kind smile curling at the corners of her mouth. She’s accomplished what she set out to do. “Well, I'd really hate for the wrong story to get out. These halls? They eat secrets alive.” She turns around, her final words tossed over her shoulder like a warning shot. “So, before anything ugly happens, before I run out of patience, do yourself a favor and stay out of my way.”
A beat.
You sit there, left hollow and still, while the last remaining bits of lunch grow colder and colder, forgotten. Jenny’s voice lingers, not just in your ears but under your skin, repeating itself, drilling itself into your very core.
You don’t eat at all during that lunch break. Appetite gone.
You screw up your chemistry test.
Then, you get told off for spacing out in geography; you don’t pay attention to any of your classes for the rest of the day.
Neither do you wait for Caleb after school as you are supposed to; instead, you leave a short message for him with one of his teammates and go straight home.
The weight of your sins presses down on your shoulders.
Cold sweat pours down your forehead as you fumble with your keys; your hand can’t stop shaking.
The key dances around the lock, always just a little off—too high, too low—never quite right. It’s taunting you. Reminding you that you’re like that too, with your sense of love. A little off. Too much, too little—never quite right.
But still, why?
Why,
why,
why.
Why did she have to notice?
The keys continue to jingle as you bite down on your trembling lower lip, trying to stop the sobs from breaking free.
You feel like that if you don’t get inside very soon, where you can be safe, alone, and hidden, those awful, awful secrets that you’ve once locked behind your teeth might just start crawling through the gaps and out of your mouth on their own.
Is she the only one who noticed?
Are there more?
There’s no way Jenny kept her mouth shut about this. She even said she has receipts!
She wouldn’t be so gracious as to just threaten you with them. No, she’s planning something bigger.
You finally jam the key into the lock, twist it open, and burst through the door. You yank off your sneakers and take the stairs two at a time, barely touching the railing.
They must be watching you.
Whispering about you.
Pointing at you.
Telling on you.
And then, he’ll find out.
Maybe he already has.
You sink into your bed, sprawling across it, planting your teary face right into the soft pile of your beloved plushies. You sob and nuzzle them, stubborn, childlike, silently begging them to soak up all of that foul shame, filth, and sin churning inside of you, just like they once did with your nightmares.
Picking up one of the plushies on the left, you bring it closer. It’s one of your very first ones, a brown teddy bear. It’s much older than the others, from the time of the shelter stay, its little bowtie falling apart at the seams. Just like you are.
By now, you’re very well aware of the rot inside of you. You can feel it spreading, day by day, eating away at your poor heart like a voracious worm at the juicy flesh of an apple. It tunnels through it, back and forth, making its already frail structure all the more vulnerable.
You’re sick in the head.
Sometimes, you don’t even want to get better. Not really. What you truly want is for him to be sick too. To infect him. For the rot to bloom inside of him as well. Because if he’s sick like you, if he’s rotten down to the core like you, maybe it won’t feel so monstrous anymore. Maybe it means your love isn’t as filthy. That you’re not betraying him for feeling like this.
You hope.
And you delude yourself.
You reach underneath your pillow, tugging your hard-earned loot out. It’s a bit ratty, a bit too musty, but you bury your face into it anyway, breathing him in.
The sweet smell of your big brother, it’s still there.
You want your last moments of peace with your twisted love before everything comes crashing down.
.
.
.
Hours slip by. The dusk settles over the neighborhood like a hazy mourning veil.
You’re still on your side, curled up like a little bug, in a hoodie that isn’t yours. The fabric smells like a honeysuckle, ylang-ylang, and something faintly warm and worn, like him.
You hear the front door open downstairs—not slammed this time, just gently pushed in, the creak of the old hinges echoing into the quiet house.
There’s a dull clatter of keys hitting the bowl, a zip of a bag, and shoes being neatly placed onto the shoe rack. Including yours, most probably, considering how carelessly you kicked them off when you came in earlier, making them fly to who knows where. A force of habit.
Then, a hair-raising silence.
The lights are off in your room, the blinds drawn.
You don’t move, still as a corpse, wishing to disappear.
The boards creak in the hallway, then the old stairs. Caleb’s steps are distinct—fast but controlled, like he’s trying not to seem like he’s hurrying even though he is. Of course he is.
Three knocks resound. Sharp, but not angry.
Your chest tightens.
“Is… my little traitor inside?”
He sounds breathless. A bit hesitant. But not out of the norm. Perhaps he doesn’t know.
“Y-yeah, here,” you call out, your voice sounding small and strained even to your own ears.
He comes in, obviously still buzzing with the leftover energy from the game, cheeks flushed, hair damp and slicked backwards, his jersey loosely hanging from his large frame. He switches the lights on and eases the duffel bag off his shoulder.
You cannot look at him.
The guilt in your chest shifts. It’s not like the panic from earlier, more of a quiet, aching kind of shame. Regret.
You should’ve been there—front row, yelling yourself hoarse, jumping at each scored point like you were part of the team, fists in the air. You should’ve brought out your custom-made banner, the colorful fabric reading: ‘Cleared for takeoff, watch him fly—Caleb’s dunking fast with Five!’, that you’ve spent your whole last weekend on crafting, and waved it around wildly without a care in the world.
Only by entirely losing your voice and having your ears ring by the final buzzer would you prove to yourself that you’ve done a good job with your cheering. Then, Caleb would scold you for ruining your voice again—hiding a fond smile—and force you to drink barrels of lemon tea upon returning home. You’d forget all about that thing with Jenny, you’d continue lying to yourself, and to him.
That’s how this afternoon should’ve gone, but it didn’t. Because you didn’t deny her. Because you didn’t go.
You couldn't. Like a coward.
Because you felt like you deserved it.
Caleb walks over to your bed, sitting down at the edge, the mattress dipping under him. He smells of sweat and victory.
He reaches out and tugs the blanket away from your upper body, a snort escaping him when he sees you. “Skipping out on my game and stealing my favorite hoodie? Bold move. I was wondering where it disappeared to.”
You tense. You’d forgotten you were wearing it—his old grey one with the sleeves a bit too long. You don’t answer.
He doesn’t push. Not yet.
“Crowd was asking where my number one fan was, y’know,” he continues lightly, brushing his hand across your head.
You don’t move, sniffling a little.
He inches closer, the warmth of his body grazing against your back. His hand rests softly at the nape of your neck, fingers curling just enough to steady you without much pressure. He spreads out his palm. The touch feels like a quiet anchor, a gentle reminder that he’s here, steady, patient.
“I… saved you the weird halftime plushie they threw at my head,” he says, turning around, his touch leaving you, pulling it out of his duffel bag. “I figured you’d want it for... whatever dark rituals you’ve got going on in here with your collection,” he says, eyeing the plushie army around you.
You let out a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
He perks up. “Aha. Noise. I’ve cracked her.” He grins, a playful curve lighting his face up. “So, what sort of séance you got here?”
You peek at him through the curtain of your hair, your face still half-buried in the pillow, your eyes puffy. “Can’t say. It's an ancient rite. The stuffed ones demand silence.”
Caleb raises an eyebrow and drops to the floor beside your bed with a thud, arms folded under his chin on the mattress, muscles bulging, clearly not planning to leave. He tilts his head cutely. “Ancient rite, huh? Is that what they’re calling aggressive napping these days?”
You snort. “It’s called recovering from life. Very intense. Very sacred.”
He smirks. “Should’ve figured. The vibe in here screams, ‘Do not disturb—unless you want to be hexed with glitter glue like your last poor airplane model.’ You should be praising me for being brave enough to risk it all for you, pips.”
You slowly turn around, rolling on your other side, glancing at the new plushie sitting on the bed before you. “What even is that thing?”
He picks it up and inspects it with a dramatic squint. “According to the announcer guy? A nerdy, mutant penguin. According to me? A crime against the stuffie design.” He turns it around, poking its glasses with his thumb, and smirks. “It reminds me of a certain someone.”
“Perfect,” you mutter, not realizing who he meant by that comment, reaching for it. “It can lead the ritual.”
“I thought it was an ancient rite?”
You shush him.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, casually, raising his hands as if to tickle you, “if your plushie army starts levitating, I’m charging you for ghost removal services.”
“Deal,” you say softly, hugging the penguin close. Everything’s still okay. You’re still just a pair of normal siblings. He doesn’t know. And he’ll never know. You’ll make sure of that. Because if you were to ever lose this, lose him, and what the two of you have, you’d probably fall apart and die on the spot. “First exorcism’s on me.”
You shift slightly under the blanket. Closer to the edge of the bed. Closer to him. “…I’m sorry, Gēge. For not coming to your game today. I just… didn’t feel like going. Had a headache.”
There's a pause. Just long enough to let your excuse settle in. Just long enough for you to know he isn’t buying it.
His voice softens anyway. “Yeah. I figured.”
You hear him rustle in the duffel bag again, then set something on your nightstand. You glance—it’s a chocolate bar. Slightly squished, but your favorite brand.
Ah, he was worried about you.
When you were little, you used to spin little fibs just to score extra snacks from him. Once, you went on and on about this horrible headache, swearing the only cure was a giant bar of chocolate. He caved, of course. And oddly enough… it helped. Like magic. Ever since, whenever a headache starts creeping in, a chocolate treat shows up beside you—no questions asked.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, quieter now. Not pushing. Just offering.
You shake your head.
You’d rather die before telling him any of it.
“Okay,” he says easily. “Then you don’t have to.”
The silence stretches again. You expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. He stays seated on the floor, pulling your fuzzy pillow into his lap and pretending like the hardwood isn’t probably digging into his knees.
“But… you aren’t hurting anymore, right? Fever?” he frowns, leaning in and bumping his forehead with yours, closing his eyes. “Hmm, it doesn’t seem like it.”
You wrinkle your nose as he bumps foreheads with you. “You’re sweaty,” you murmur. “You’re getting your boy germs on me.”
He gasps, leaning back dramatically. “Wow. Boy germs? This is the thanks I get for bringing offerings to your shrine of sorrow?”
You huff, poking his nose. “You brought me a cursed plushie and a melted candy bar.”
He holds up a finger. “A slightly melted candy bar. Premium pity chocolate. Imported from the school vending machine.”
Caleb leans his head lightly against the side of your bed, looking sleepy, but still focused solely on you. His violet eyes nearly hypnotize you, as if pleading with you to lose yourself in them.
“You should go eat something. Shower,” you mutter, cupping his face and swiping your thumb under his eye lovingly. Your gaze slides down towards his lips.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He leans into your touch, nuzzling. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me sit here. Let me be annoying, Meimei.”
You close your eyes, humming, lightly pushing your head against his temple. You soon feel his fingers tangle in your hair, playing with it. He combs through the messy locks, wrapping them around his fingers, curling them, and lightly tugging on them.
A small groan escapes you at one particular tug.
He pauses.
And does it again, firmer. Right at the root. As if fishing for that shameful sound.
You clench your jaw.
After sitting in silence together for a while, you hear a familiar shuffle of bags and the clack of Grandma’s sandals downstairs.
“Children, can you please come down and help me with my bags? I have some groceries!”
“Coming!” Caleb calls back, already rising with a stretch and a grunt. Before heading out, he leans over and gives your head a gentle pat, fingers ruffling your hair in that annoying but comforting way only older brothers can get away with.
He smiles down at you. Ever so dependable. “I got this. You don’t need to get up.”
You glance up at him, voice dry. “Tell Grandma I’ve tragically merged with the bed and can no longer function as a biped.”
Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Merged with the bed?”
You nod solemnly. “It’s permanent. Science can’t explain it.”
He chuckles. “Got it. I’ll tell her you’ve achieved blanket-based enlightenment. She’ll probably bring incense.”
You groan. “If she brings that eucalyptus one again, I will unmerge just to escape.”
He grins, tousling your hair again as he turns toward the door. “Stay fused, oh sacred bed creature. I’ll return with tribute and tales of downstairs chaos.”
Caleb stops in his tracks dramatically. “If I die under the weight of Gran’s bargain-bin watermelons and potatoes, remember me fondly.”
“Bring chips or don’t come back. You’re banished.”
“The Oracle has spoken.”
And with that, he’s gone—thudding down the stairs.
You let your eyes slip shut.
You’ve decided.
This is the last night of you letting yourself be like this. Clingy. Soft. Embarrassing. Your last act of leniency towards your depraved self.
You hate how easily you fold around him, how desperate you still are for something that should’ve faded by now.
But tomorrow, you’ll be different. No more of that wide-eyed baby sister routine. You’ll be distant. Independent. Difficult. Moody. Simply, a proper teenager.
You’ve outgrown being loved by him like that; you don't deserve it anymore.
If... you ever deserved it in the first place.