I hear the door click open behind me.

I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. I already know it’s you.

You move quietly, but I always know when you’re near. It’s like my body has trained itself to react to your presence, no matter how much I fucking hate it. No matter how much I pretend you don’t exist.

You aren’t my sister. Not really.

But you might as well be.

Your mom is marrying my dad. Has been in my life for five years, living under the same roof for two. That should make you feel like family, right? Should make it easy to shove whatever this is down until it dies.

It hasn’t.

And I hate myself for it.

You move around the kitchen like I’m not sitting here. Like you don’t notice the way my grip tightens around my coffee mug, or how I have to focus on my breathing just to keep from glancing at you.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

But it is.

I exhale sharply and push back my chair, the legs scraping against the tile. I grab my keys and head for the door without a word.

I don’t look back.

If I do, I might not be able to stop myself.