After being stuck at ho for weeks since my incident, I don't think I've ever been more bored in my life. I've already cleaned the house top to bottom, and now there's nothing left to do but doomscroll on Instagram.
Even that's not entertaining anymore. I keep landing on the toxic corners of the app, like redpill content or anti-n's rights posts. They're filled with rants about how n should be locked indoors and how we're sohow to bla for being raped so often. It's frustrating and just makes feel worse.
I don't even have Elara to keep company. She's gone from eight to three, and those hours drag on forever.
Without her, the house feels hollow — like every sound just echoes back at . I hate how empty I get when she's not here. It makes feel pathetic, like there's sothing wrong with needing her this much.
I decided to send her a text, just checking in to see how things were going at her job. As I typed, a nagging voice in my head told I was being too clingy, but in the end, I hit send anyway.
I sat there, staring at my phone, daydreaming about her until a reply finally ca:
"Hi Noah, I'm just arranging so files. What do you need?"
Reading her words, a wave of relief washed over . I felt... lighter, almost comforted, like a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying had finally lifted.
"How much longer before you co ho... :(" I typed, craving her arms, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
This ti she read it—but didn't respond. A bead of sweat ford on my forehead. Did I ss up? Was I being too clingy? I paced around the living room, trying to reason out why she hadn't replied.
Then my phone dinged.
"Just checked. I can get out an hour earlier today... I'll be ho by two."
Relief washed over like a tide. She didn't hate . She wasn't upset. She was just... checking.
I laughed quietly to myself as I hearted her ssage. "I really need a hobby..." I muttered, scrolling through apps, hoping sothing would grab my attention.
And then, finally, sothing did. A tweet caught my eye — a girl claiming her man had been taken by his sister.
For a mont, I felt a pang of sympathy. But when I clicked through to her profile, the sympathy evaporated. Every post was filled with racist and anti-masculinist nonsense, shared and reposted like badges of pride.
"I really can't escape this shit, can I..." I muttered, tossing my phone aside and flipping on the TV. Maybe that'd be different, right?
The first channel I landed on was airing an episode of Love Island. I'd never understood the appeal of these shows. They make n look like himbo crybabies, existing only for sex, like that was all we were good for.
I flipped to another channel, only to be greeted by a dude's bulge. I switched off imdiately, my stomach twisting. Finally, I landed on the news channel — the one station I trusted not to be spewing complete bullshit.
"Breaking news as we report the tragic death of 18-year-old Bryce Taylor, who was brutally gang-raped and beaten to death by four won last Thursday. Authorities state the attack was preditated, orchestrated by the lead woman who had been repeatedly rejected by Bryce. All four suspects have been arrested and are awaiting trial. This marks the twentieth rape-murder this month."
The headline hit hard. I didn't know Bryce personally, but from the few tis we talked, he was nothing but kind and gentle. He didn't deserve the horrific fate he suffered.
I was too stunned to speak. That could've been . Before, I'd been scared to go out — now, I was truly, utterly terrified.
I buried my face in my hands, hot tears streaming down. The realization hit like a punch: I was screwed. I couldn't trust anyone but my sister to protect . Everyone else I talked to... they wanted the sa awful things.
I wiped the tears from my eyes with my sleeve, sniffling as I grabbed my phone. The least I could do was reach out to Bryce's family, offer so words during their hard ti.
It didn't take long to find them. His mother's Facebook was practically empty — nothing but her profile picture remained. She must be grieving terribly.
I typed quickly, my hands shaking slightly:
"Hi, this is Noah Miller. I know you don't know , but I knew your son a little. I'm really sorry for your loss. I know it must be unbearable, but please rember that Bryce is in a better place now."
I hit send and tossed my phone onto the side of the couch, feeling the weight of helplessness settle on .
The news droned on, listing upcoming projects, city plans, and cultural events. I decided it was probably best to stay ignorant of any more terrible updates before my sadness and anger got even worse.
"Guess I'll watch so Elden Ring gaplay..." I muttered, trying to distract myself from the weight pressing down on .
-
Ti passed with ease as I watched Elden Ring speedruns. For once, it was nice to see sothing that wasn't negative — no news, no drama, no politics. Just pure focus and skill. It helped keep my mind distracted, at least for a little while.
My peace shattered when I heard the familiar creak of the front door opening. I turned my head, and there she was — my sister, still in her work clothes. Her hair was slightly ssy from the day, a few strands catching the light as she stepped in. There was a quiet confidence about her, the kind that made the rest of the world blur into the background. To , in that mont, she looked unreal — too beautiful for the dull grayness of our little ho.
"Did you miss ?" she asks, flopping onto the couch beside , her arm sliding around my shoulders and tugging close until my face pressed against the soft curve of her sideboob.
"Yeah, I'm bored and miserable without you," I mumble into her warmth. She pulls my head back gently, her fingers brushing my chin as she tilts my face up. Her eyes lock on mine, intense, like she's studying every inch of , a small smirk tugging at her lips.
Before I can get another word out, her lips slam against mine, catching completely off guard.
For a fleeting mont, I surrender to the kiss, lost in the heat of it, but then reality hits like a punch—I'm kissing my own sister. I jerk back, my heart pounding.
I slap a hand over my mouth, torn between shock and sothing I can't na. "W-What the fuck, Elara?"
"What's wrong, Noah?" she asked, her expression clouded with uncertainty over what she'd just done.
"You just kissed ..." I stamr, my voice barely above a whisper. A frown creases her brow as she registers my reaction. "I need so ti to think." I rise from the couch, feeling the weight of the mont. Her hand catches my wrist, tugging back with a desperate grip, but I pull harder, breaking free. I head to my room, the sound of the door shutting behind echoing in the quiet space.
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