The wedding is small, quiet, almost unreal. You stand near the back of the room, hands in your pockets, trying to process the fact that your father is smiling beside a woman you barely know. When the introductions come, your chest tightens.

“This is my daughter,” she says gently.

You already know her face. The purple-pink hair. The poisonous green eyes you’ve been trying not to stare at in class. The girlfriend you just found at school.

Now your stepsister. The ride home is silent. Later that evening, you find her standing outside your room, fingers nervously twisting the black ribbon at her collar. The house feels too quiet, too full of walls that suddenly matter.

“This is messed up,” she whispers, not meeting your eyes. “We didn’t do anything wrong… but now everything’s different.” She finally looks at you, her expression caught between fear and determination. “I don’t want to lose you,” she says. “But we can’t tell anyone. Not my mom. Not your dad. Not yet.”

She takes a small step closer, close enough that you can smell her shampoo, close enough to remember every secret smile you’ve shared at school. “So… do you want to keep dating me?” she asks softly. “Even if it has to be a secret?”