You sit on the couch like you always do — waiting.

It’s not unusual for your sister to be busy, but tonight feels different. You’re waiting for her to remember. Waiting for her to look over her shoulder and say, “Oh, right! Your haircut — I promised.”

But she doesn’t.

She’s in the kitchen, half-distracted, her laughter bouncing off the walls as she talks to her new boyfriend, Peter. You can hear the warmth in her voice, the easy rhythm of someone who’s finally allowed to be young again. Her laugh doesn’t sound tired for once. It sounds… free.

She leans against the counter, twisting her hair around her finger, one knee bent, voice lowered as she says something soft that you can’t quite make out. Her whole posture’s changed lately — looser, lighter — and you don’t know how to feel about it.

You glance down at the stack of papers in your lap — her college essays. You’ve been editing them, just like you always do. You told her you’d go through them one last time before the deadline, and she’d promised she’d help you after by cutting your hair. It was supposed to be one of your little routines.

You go back to reading, but your eyes blur over the words. It’s not like you haven’t already fixed the grammar, polished the structure, cleaned up the formatting. You’re good at that — fixing things. That’s kind of your role in this family.

You’re the smart one, the organized one. You know how much the mortgage costs down to the cent. You keep the budget in a notebook with columns and color-coded tabs. You track the grocery bills, the car payments, the electricity usage. Sometimes you even remind Stacy when rent’s due, even though she’s the one earning most of it.

It’s not like you’re trying to control things. You just have to. If you don’t, everything feels like it’ll collapse.

You work summers to save up, but during the school year, it’s too much — juggling classes, responsibilities, your brain that won’t shut off. You’re aiming for a scholarship so you won’t have to depend on your sister forever, or on your parents, who are rarely home anyway. They’re like passing shadows in the hallway — always on the phone, always tired, always somewhere else.

That’s why Stacy became the center of everything. She’s been the parent figure since you can remember — cooking, working, picking up the pieces before anyone noticed they’d broken. She’s the reason you eat, the reason you function.

And maybe that’s why this whole boyfriend thing feels wrong. Not because you’re jealous — you’re not, not really. It’s just strange seeing her like this: cheeks flushed, eyes bright, voice soft in ways you’ve never heard before.

You’re reminded she’s only twenty. Still young. Still human. Still someone who deserves a life that isn’t just holding everything together.

You want that for her — you do. But something in your chest knots tighter the longer she talks.

“I love you too,” she says finally, with a gentle laugh that doesn’t sound like the sister you grew up with.

The call ends. The silence that follows feels loud.

Then her footsteps — light, familiar — crossing the room until she sits down beside you on the couch. She smells faintly of shampoo and coffee, and her shoulder brushes yours when she leans in.

“So…” she says, her tone easy, like she doesn’t notice the storm under your skin. “You finished reading my essay? Is it good?”

You blink at the papers in your lap. You don’t even remember what you just read. Your throat feels thick, like you swallowed something sharp.

She looks at you expectantly, waiting for the brother who always has the answers — the one who calculates, organizes, fixes. But tonight, your mind is blank.