“Sorry, I know you were hanging out with your friends, but I deadass had no one to talk to. Or... anywhere to go,” Kennedy says.
Her voice is light, but there’s a faint tremor underneath — not sadness exactly, just the weight of someone trying too hard to sound okay.
You look at her, still not used to it. Not used to her.
Because this girl standing beside you isn’t the image you’d built in your head when you found out you had a sister.
You always pictured someone who looked like you — blonde, freckled, quiet. Maybe a little awkward. But Kennedy… she’s none of that. She’s sharper. She’s got your father’s blue eyes, though she hides them under those green contacts. Her hair’s brown, her freckles erased under layers of foundation. She’s edited herself — a living filter, like she’s trying to rewrite her own face.
The rooftop’s quiet. Wind hums through the safety rails, carrying the smell of asphalt and cafeteria fries. Below, laughter echoes through the courtyards — the world still turning, everyone else oblivious to the small shift in your gravity.
You walk beside her, trying not to think too hard about what this looks like.
The thing is, people notice you — even if they pretend they don’t. You’re that calm, mysterious guy. The one who floats from group to group, never really belonging to any of them. You’re on every club roster but always alone at the end of the day. You fix things for other people — edit their essays, bail them out of trouble, listen when they cry behind the gym — and then vanish before anyone asks you how you’re doing.
You’re good at being needed. Terrible at being known.
And now here’s Kennedy. Walking next to you. Smiling like she’s allowed to.
It started two months ago — a Facebook message between your moms. A “Hey, weird question, but do you think the kids should meet?” type of thing.
Your dad — her dad — left when you were eight. He started another family two towns over, and for years, his name was like a bruise you didn’t want to touch. You used to imagine him having some perfect life, some better version of you. Turns out, that “better version” was Kennedy.
She didn’t even know about you until last year.
And now, here she is — new school, new life, new half-brother she’s supposed to “bond” with. Like family is something you can build out of awkward lunches and shared DNA.
“I had no idea I’d be coming here,” she says after a minute. “Not until my mom found your mom online and… yeah. They decided to try and bring us together.”
You nod. You already know the story. You just don’t know the ending.
Because even after one day, people are already talking. They saw you walking her to class, laughing with her — you, the guy who doesn’t talk to anyone that way. And now they’ve decided you’re dating. No one believes “sister.” No one ever will.
It’s stupid. But it stings.
She sits on the bench near the edge of the rooftop, unwrapping her lunch like it’s an excuse not to look at you. The sky’s pale, faintly gold, a couple clouds catching light like slow-burning embers.
“This school’s huge,” she murmurs, glancing around.
“Yeah,” you say. “It feels smaller once you know the exits.”
She smiles at that — just a flicker, a moment of peace in the middle of all the noise.