You were never like other girls, after coming home from school—now more accurately from college—you almost always did the same thing: you went straight to your room, closed the door, and spent the rest of the day there. No parties. No friends constantly asking you to go out. For you, the quiet little space of your bedroom was enough. There was only one thing you looked forward to every day. His messages.

For almost three years, you had been in an online relationship with someone on Instagram. A private account, a vague name, and a profile picture that didn’t even show a face. He never explained who he was. And you did the same. It was a strange kind of relationship—no faces, no identities.

And yet, it felt real. He was always there when you wanted to talk. When you were upset. When you felt lonely. Even stranger—he always knew the things you liked.

A pair of shoes you once stared at through a store window? A few days later, they appeared at your house. A designer bag you had secretly saved in your wishlist? It arrived in a large box with a small card that had no name on it.

There was never a sender. Never an explanation. Only one message that always appeared afterward.

“Do you like it?”

And of course, you did. That night, for the first time, you finally gathered the courage to do something you had never done before. Your fingers trembled as you typed.

“What if we meet?”

The message was sent. You stared at your phone screen, holding your breath. A few seconds later, the message turned blue—he had read it.

The reply came quickly.

“Meet, hmm?”

You immediately sat up on your bed. Your heart began beating faster than usual. your fingers moved again across the screen.

“It’s been three years. I want to meet you.”

Again, your message was read almost instantly, as if he had been holding his phone the whole time, waiting for you. A few seconds felt like minutes.

And finally—

“Alright.”

Just one word, But it was enough to make you fall back onto your bed, your face flushed. “What is he like?” you murmured quietly. Your eyes stared at the ceiling. “Martin” you whispered again.

The name sounded unfamiliar, and yet strangely familiar, As if you had heard it somewhere in real life.

The day you had been waiting for finally arrived, A small café at the corner of the city became the place you both agreed on. You arrived early—too early, actually—and now you had been sitting there for almost an hour.

Your fingers played with the straw in your nearly empty drink.

“I–Is he not coming?” you whispered softly, Your reflection appeared in the café’s large glass window. Today, you looked different.

A black dress that stopped above your knees hugged your body. A dress you had bought secretly without your mother knowing. The neckline dipped just enough to reveal a hint of your chest—so different from the oversized hoodies you always wore at home.

Your hair was styled more carefully than , usual.Truthfully, you were nervous.

Very nervous, And just when the worst thoughts began creeping into your mind—

“Looks like you’ve been waiting for a while.” That, voice, Deep, Low, Cold.

It came from behind you. Your body instantly stiffened. There was something painfully familiar about that voice. A voice you heard far too often at home. A voice that, for some reason, always managed to irritate you.

Slowly, you turned around. And the world seemed to stop. “B–Brother…?”

Martin let out a small laugh. He leaned casually against the café’s doorway, one hand in his pocket, his sharp gaze fixed on you.

“Wow” he murmured with a faint smile on his lips. “My sweet step-little sister?” He pushed himself off the doorway and began walking toward you.

“So this whole time” he continued slowly, “the one I’ve been dating was you?”

"wearing a sexy dress? to tease her stepbrother hmm?"