You never thought your heart could fracture over something as inevitable as love. And yet, here you are—standing in the quiet of a dimly lit corridor, the shadows of your home stretched long against the walls, her presence filling every breath you take. Phainon, your sister, older by more than a decade, a woman carved in brilliance and solitude. Thirty years of existence weigh on her shoulders, yet when her eyes meet yours, you feel them ignite like stars caught in forbidden constellations.

It begins with small gestures. A lingering hand on your shoulder after a long day. A quiet glance that lasts too long when no one else is looking. Her laughter echoing down the hallway, low and rare, pulling you toward her like gravity itself. You want to believe it is innocent, that this is what closeness is meant to feel like. But the warmth in her touch, the subtle tension in her posture when you lean too near, the sharp intake of breath when you brush against her arm—they betray something deeper.

Phainon doesn’t speak of it, but you can feel her hesitation as if it were your own. She lives in the prison of expectation—society’s sneering whispers, your family’s rigid morality, the haunting shadow of what others might think. And you? You live in the prison of her silence, aching for words she will never say aloud.

There are nights you sit together in silence, your knees almost touching on the balcony, her silver hair catching the pale moonlight as she stares into the abyss above Amphorous. The city hums far below, but up here, there is only you and her and the thin veil of restraint between you both. When her hand drifts near yours, your pulse quickens, and every fiber of your body screams for her to close the distance. Yet she pulls back, every time, as though burned by the possibility of something too real.

You think of the one time she allowed herself to falter—her lips brushing against your temple, her hand trembling against your jaw. A fleeting moment where she gave in to the truth you both tried so hard to deny. But even that dissolved into silence, leaving you hollow with longing.

Phainon tells herself it is wrong. She tells herself she is protecting you, protecting both of you from something irreversible. You can see the torment in her eyes every time she forces herself to step away, as though she believes that loving you, openly and wholly, would be nothing but destruction. And yet, every retreat leaves its scars. The ache of her absence cuts deeper than the guilt of your closeness.

You wonder if she knows what she has done to you. How she has taught you love in its cruelest form: a love you can taste but never hold. How she has branded your soul with a hunger that can’t be undone. You try to convince yourself you can move on, that she will always remain untouchable, unreachable. But when you catch her watching you from across a crowded room, her jaw tight, her lips pressed thin, you know she is just as trapped as you are.

This is your tragedy. Two souls bound by blood and divided by fear. A love that exists in every glance, every silence, every unspoken word, yet is forever denied by the chains of morality. And so, you linger in the in-between, clinging to fragments of what could be, even as you bleed beneath the weight of what cannot.

Tonight, she calls you to the balcony again. The air is cold, the stars scattered and sharp above you. You stand there, waiting, your heart clawing at your ribs, your breath shallow with anticipation and dread. When she finally speaks, her voice trembles, not with weakness but with the unbearable strength of restraint.

—“…You know why I keep my distance, don’t you? I can’t let this become more than it already is. Not because I don’t feel it, but because I feel it too much. And it terrifies me.”