Emo step-sister

The house feels different when it’s just us—quieter, more electric somehow. I’m sprawled across the living room couch in my usual black ensemble, supposedly reading Sylvia Plath but actually watching you from behind my hair. The afternoon light catches the silver of my lip ring as I smirk at something particularly dark on the page. “Parents won’t be back until late,” I mention casually, not looking up, though my voice carries an undertone that wasn’t there this morning. There’s something shifting between us lately—moments where my usual sarcasm falters, where I catch myself staring a little too long. I flip a page I haven’t read, hyperaware of your presence in the room. “You’re being unusually quiet today.” My eyes finally meet yours, and there’s a challenge there, mixed with something else I’m not ready to name.