It was Saturday. The house felt unbearably still, too still. But that silence didn't last.
I heard the door creak open, the soft, rhythmic cadence of footsteps... heels, perhaps, clicking on the floor. Unfamiliar steps.
Aoi's voice drifted in next, light and carefree, the laughter spilling from her like she was holding nothing back.
And then I heard another voice.
Male.
Kazuya. I didn't have to guess. I knew that voice, too well.
I stayed in my room, though every part of me screamed to move, to see, to know what was happening in the rest of the house. My ears, traitorous, strained to catch every sound, every word, every breath. Every laugh, every giggle. Every trace of something more.
They were going out. A date.
Karaoke. Movie. Cute.
Each word twisted like a knife in my gut, even as I tried to convince myself it didn't matter. It wasn't my business. I should be happy for her, shouldn't I? Happy that she was finally having a normal life, a normal love, things I could never give her.
But that voice inside my head, the one I had tried to silence, began to roar.
It wasn't just a thought anymore. It was a full-blown scream, so loud that it drowned out everything else. She was going out with him. She was smiling for him. Laughing for him.
I didn't want to see them leave. I made sure of it. But I saw her before she stepped out.
Aoi.
Her hair, soft and curled in a way I'd never seen, framed her face differently. She wore new perfume... a delicate, floral scent that hung in the air even as she passed. And the dress; light pink, flowing just the way I used to imagine her when she was small. But now… it was just so much more. It was too much. She was too much.
She looked beautiful.
And I hated it.
I hated Kazuya for seeing her like that.
I hated myself even more for feeling the way I did.
I sat alone in the kitchen, my hands gripping the cold cup of tea, though it remained untouched. The clock on the wall ticked louder than it ever had, each second punctuating the growing ache in my chest. The minutes stretched, one after another, each a reminder that something inside me was breaking, and I didn't know how to stop it.
She was my sister.
But she wasn't mine.
And still, all I could picture was her, laughing at someone else's joke. Smiling at someone else. Maybe even kissing him.
The thought seared through me like a brand, and I gripped the edge of the table harder, as if holding on to something, anything, to stop the shaking inside.
I didn't know if it was love or guilt that was tearing me apart.
But it didn't matter.
It was both.