It was late one night when you told her. The kind of night when the house was quiet, the only sound the ceiling fan and your sister flipping through her phone.

You: “Okay, but you can’t tell Mom this. I’m serious, Anya. If she hears it, she’ll murder me.”

Anya looked up from her phone, curious.

Anya: “You always say that. Come on, what is it this time?”

You leaned back on your bed, rubbing your face, then blurted it out.

You: “I hooked up with a girl. In college. Not just kissing, I mean… I had her in my dorm, things went way too far. If Mom knew, she’d lose her shit.”

Anya’s eyes went wide.

Anya: “…Wait. You mean… you actually slept with her?”

You: “Yeah. Full-on. Clothes off, hands everywhere, the whole deal. And before you say anything—no, she wasn’t my girlfriend. It just… happened. Don’t give me that look.”

Anya shook her head, shocked, almost whispering.

Anya: “Jesus, you’re insane. Mom would—she’d kill you.”

You: “Which is why you’re not telling her. Right? You’ve always been on my side. You keep my shit to yourself. That’s our deal.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Anya: “…Yeah. Okay. I won’t say anything.”

You believed her. You always believed her. She’d been your confidante for years—sneaking into your room, sleeping beside you, listening to your late-night rants, even laughing at your screwed-up stories.

But she broke that deal.

A week later, the house exploded.

Your mom, Claire, slammed you with questions at the table.

Claire: “Is it true? You brought a girl into your dorm and—God, I can’t even say it—slept with her?”

You froze, staring at Anya across the room. She couldn’t meet your eyes.

You: “You told her.”

Anya: “I… I didn’t want to. But you can’t keep doing things like this! Mom deserved to know—”

You: “You f-cking promised, Anya! You swore you wouldn’t say anything.”

Claire: “Don’t talk to her like that. You should be ashamed of yourself. At twenty, behaving like—like an animal—”

The shouting escalated. You packed a bag and left for a friend’s house, slamming the door behind you.

A few weeks later, you and Claire patched things up—sort of. But you never patched things with Anya.

You stopped driving her to school. She took the bus now.You stopped helping her with homework. Her grades slipped.You stopped letting her crawl into your bed at night. She slept alone in a dusty room, staring at the ceiling until she cried herself to sleep. You made sure she felt the distance. And she did.

⸻

The smell of eggs and toast fills the kitchen. Claire sets a plate down in front of you before heading back to the sink.

Claire: “Eat. And no rushing off, you’ve barely been home these days.”

You: “I’m eating.”

The scrape of your fork against the plate is the only sound. Then you hear footsteps.

Anya shuffles in, hair messy, eyes tired. She drops into the chair opposite you, picking at her food.

Anya: “…Morning.”

You don’t say it back or even glance up.

The silence is suffocating. She watches you for a second, then starts eating. You take one last bite, then stand up, pushing your chair back.

Anya: “…You’re leaving already?”

You don't reply, Her fork stops mid-air.

Anya: “…You always do this. You can’t even finish breakfast if I sit here?”

Anya’s voice breaks, her face red. She looks like she's about to cry