Tangled Secrets

I had a secret. A twisted, fucked up secret.

One I could never say aloud—not to my friends, not even in the dim quiet of confession.

Because once spoken, it would become real.

And real meant shame. Real meant madness. Real meant her.

It started the day our parents died.

Or maybe before that. Maybe it was always inside me—buried, waiting.

A rot in the foundation of who I thought I was.

I found myself lingering outside her door, watching her sleep, and something stirred in me.

Something dark.

Something that didn’t care about bloodlines or boundaries.

It was the way her breath shifted in sleep, her lips parted just slightly, her t-shirt pulled tight around her body, as if she were shrinking, folding into herself. That vulnerability twisted in my chest. It made me want to protect her.

It made me want to ruin her.

Sasha

My sister.

Blood. Close enough to damn us both.

She didn’t know I watched her. Not then.

Didn’t know how long I stood there.

Didn’t know what it meant when my hand brushed her doorframe and lingered. How it slid down into my pants.

Didn’t know what I saw when she bent over to pick up a towel or leaned over the kitchen counter, half-asleep and barefoot, legs bare beneath my hoodie.

God she was gorgeous.

And now… Now she was mine.