In Love with my sister's Friend

The Fear

I kept checking my phone like a fool.

It had been almost a full day since our little encounter on the street, and still nothing. No message. No “hey stranger,” no “you smell nice,” not even a ghost emoji. I felt like a clown. A 6-foot-tall clown with a beard and muscles, waiting for a text like a teenage boy after his first crush smiled at him in biology class.

But she didn’t text.

And for reasons I still can’t explain, I refused to be the first to reach out. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was because her smile was still dancing around in my head and I didn’t want to mess it up. Or maybe I wanted her to make the move, to prove I wasn’t just imagining the way she looked at me that day. Like she wanted to stay longer. Like she didn’t want to say goodbye.

Whatever the case, I waited.

And then, like fate was laughing at me again, three days later I got a text from an unknown number. Simple. Direct. No emojis.

“So… did the perfume rub off or do I have to come closer?”

I chuckled so hard I almost dropped my phone.

For a second, I just stared at the message, unsure of how to reply. My instincts told me to play it cool, keep it light. But then my ego whispered, she texted first. And that made me feel... good. Like I had won something I didn’t even know I was competing for.

“Careful, Constance,” I typed back, “if you keep getting closer, I might think you’re not pretending anymore.”

She didn’t reply immediately. I imagined her reading that with a slight smirk, tucking her phone away just to let me stew a bit. And I did. I replayed the moment she leaned in, the scent of her skin, the curve of her lips when she smiled. I kept telling myself it wasn’t that deep; but every part of me knew I was lying.

We started texting more after that. Little by little. Some nights we’d chat till 1 a.m., sharing music, jokes, things we couldn’t believe we were saying. But there was always a layer beneath it. We’d flirt, laugh, and then suddenly pull back, pretending we were still just talking.

She made me work for every laugh, every reply.

One evening, I texted her:

“You know, I never asked; were you really just passing by my workplace that day?”

Her reply came a minute later.

“You think too much, Samuel.”

That was her way. Evade. Deflect. Tease. She knew the game, and she played it well. But what she didn’t know was that I was slowly beginning to hate the game.

I wanted real answers.

I wanted her.

We finally made plans to meet again. Casual, nothing serious; coffee at a small café close to my place. I picked it because it was quiet, intimate, and I needed that. I needed her without distractions. No family. No Ella watching from the corner like a gossiping hawk.

She arrived ten minutes late.

Typical.

But when she walked in, everything else faded out. She wore a simple green dress that clung to her body in all the right places. Her hair was tied up, exposing her neck and collarbone, and God help me, I forgot how to breathe for a second.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey.”

That was it.

We didn’t hug. We didn’t touch. We just sat across from each other like two actors in a play who had forgotten their lines but were trying to fake it anyway. Our conversation started off light. I asked about work, she asked about mine. We joked about Ella and how she probably thought we were already dating. But under all that small talk, the tension simmered.

“Do you always take girls to this café?” she asked, stirring her coffee slowly.

“Only the ones I plan to impress,” I said with a grin.

She smiled, but her eyes didn’t soften. “So, this is you trying to impress me?”

“Is it working?”

She didn’t answer. Just sipped her coffee, her gaze locked on mine. I watched the way her fingers curled around the cup, the way she bit her lower lip unconsciously. She was pretending again. Acting like this didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t getting to her.

But I was. I had to be.

“You’re different,” I said suddenly, not even planning to.

She raised a brow. “How?”

I leaned in slightly. “You make me nervous.”

That caught her off guard. For the first time, I saw her flinch; just slightly.

“That’s hard to believe,” she said, looking away.

“It’s true. And I think you know it.”

She didn’t deny it. Just changed the subject. Again. But I wasn’t done.

“Constance,” I said, my voice softer, “do you like me?”

She laughed, the sound light but shaky. “You’re asking me like we’re in secondary school.”

“I’m serious.”

She looked at me for a long moment. Her expression unreadable.

“I think,” she said slowly, “you’re dangerous.”

That hit me. “How?”

“You make it hard to think straight. You have this... way of looking at me, and I feel like if I’m not careful, I’ll fall and won’t be able to get back up.”

For a moment, the air between us grew heavy. I wanted to reach across the table, touch her hand, pull her closer. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

So I said the only thing that came to mind.

“Maybe falling isn’t such a bad thing.”

She gave me a look; half amused, half terrified. “You really want me to like you that bad?”

“No,” I said. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t already.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My bed felt too empty. My room too quiet. I kept thinking about the way she looked at me before we parted. Like she was torn between what she wanted and what she thought she should want.

I sent her a voice note.

“I don’t know what this is, Constance. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t feel like something.”

She didn’t reply till morning. Her voice was calm, steady. But her words? They were something else.

“I feel it too. But I don’t know if I’m ready to let it happen.”

A week passed. We didn’t see each other. Just texts. Random calls. Nothing deep. Nothing real. I started wondering if she was pulling back. Maybe she’d gotten scared. Maybe I’d said too much. But deep down, I knew she was still there. Watching. Waiting.

Then one afternoon, I was leaving work when I saw her again. Standing across the street. Not by accident this time. She was wearing jeans and a loose white shirt, her arms crossed like she didn’t plan to stay long.

“You stalking me again?” I called out.

She smirked. “You wish.”

We walked. No destination. Just side by side, talking about nonsense. At one point, our hands brushed. Neither of us pulled away.

“Samuel,” she said suddenly, “why me?”

I looked at her. “Why not you?”

She shook her head. “You’re not like other guys. You… see too much.”

“And that scares you?”

“No. It... makes me want to hide more.”

I stopped walking.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, like she wanted to believe me but didn’t know how.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

“But what if I already have?”

That line stayed with me.

Later that night, I called Ella. I told her everything. How I felt. How scared I was. How confused. She laughed, of course.

“Samuel Fray, the lover boy,” she teased. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s not funny,” I said.

“I know. That’s why I’m laughing.”

“But what if she’s not sure?”

“Then you wait,” Ella said softly. “If it’s real, you wait. And when she finally lets herself fall? You better be ready to catch her.”

I hung up, her words echoing in my head.

You better be ready to catch her.

Two days later, Constance called. Her voice was shaky.

“Can I come over?”

I said yes before she even finished the question.

When she arrived, she looked different. No makeup. No pretense. Just her. Real. Beautiful. She sat on my couch, silent for a while. Then she turned to me.

“I’m scared,” she said.

I moved closer. “So am I.”

“I don’t want to be just another story in your life.”

“You’re not.”

“You say that now. But what about later?”

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then let’s write a new story. One where we’re not afraid.”

She closed her eyes. Took a breath.

And then, slowly, she leaned forward and kissed me.

Soft. Slow. Like she’d been waiting for that moment forever.

I kissed her back.

But just as things began to deepen, my phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

Then it buzzed again. And again. Three times in a row.

Constance pulled back slightly, her brows furrowing. “You should check that.”

I grabbed the phone from the table, annoyed. But when I looked at the screen, my heart dropped.

A message from an unknown number.

“You think she’s the only one with secrets?”

And beneath it, a photo.

Of me.

From years ago.

In bed.

With someone I had no business being with.

Constance was still beside me.

Still so close.

Still unaware.

And just like that, everything changed.