In Love with my sister's Friend

The Past

I didn’t say a word.

Neither did she.

My phone buzzed again in my hand, but the damage was already done.

Constance’s gaze flickered to the screen for the briefest second, and I saw it; the shift. The stillness in her shoulders, the tight line of her mouth, the way she suddenly sat up straighter, putting space between us.

She saw it.

I knew she did.

But she didn’t ask.

She just looked me in the eye, forced a faint smile, and said, “Do you want to order pizza or should I head out?”

I blinked. “What?”

She stood, smoothing her shirt like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just seen a picture of me tangled up in sheets with someone I swore was long buried in my past. The message still hung in my chest like a steel hook: You think she’s the only one with secrets?

I couldn’t speak.

My mind was racing, trying to piece together how the hell that photo had resurfaced. Who sent it? Why now? And more importantly; how much did she really see?

“I should probably get home,” she said lightly, like she wasn’t breaking my heart with every word.

I stood, trying to read her face, trying to find the version of her that had kissed me just minutes ago. But she was gone. In her place stood a colder, guarded Constance. The one who had learned to walk away before anyone had the chance to hurt her.

“I can drive you,” I offered.

“No need. I’ll get a ride.”

“Constance…”

“I’m good, Samuel,” she said, and there was that tight smile again. “Thanks for the coffee. And the honesty.”

She walked to the door without looking back.

But I knew her too well.

She saw it.

She was pretending; but only for now.

I didn’t hear from her for three days.

Three long, slow-burning days.

I tried calling once. She didn’t answer. I typed out a message, then deleted it. Then I typed another. And deleted that one too. Everything I wanted to say sounded like an excuse, and I didn’t want to give her excuses.

But I also couldn’t ignore the weight in my chest.

That picture i could see it wasn’t recent. It wasn’t even relevant. But it looked bad. It looked like I was still that version of myself she was afraid I might be. The version I was trying to bury. And now, someone out there was trying to drag that past into the light.

I had no idea if she was angry, heartbroken, disgusted; or all three.

All I knew was that I missed her.

It was Ella who finally called me.

“Did you mess it up?” she asked before I could even say hello.

I sank into my chair. “I think someone else did it for me.”

“What happened?”

“She saw something. A picture. From before.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough.”

Ella sighed. “And you didn’t explain?”

“She didn’t ask.”

“Then you know what that means.”

I rubbed my forehead. “She doesn’t want to know.”

“No,” Ella said quietly. “She wants you to want her to know.”

That night, just past 11 p.m., my phone lit up again.

Constance.

“Can we talk?”

I didn’t even wait to reply. I called her immediately.

She didn’t answer.

But the next message came five minutes later.

“I’ll be at O’Dara Café in the morning. 10:30. Don’t be late.”

I was there by 10:15.

She walked in at 10:38.

Hair pulled back, face bare, wearing a large sweatshirt and no earrings. She looked like herself. But she also looked like she didn’t sleep. Like she’d been wrestling with a war inside her head. A war I started.

She sat across from me, didn’t say anything for a minute. Just watched me like she was memorizing my face for the last time.

“I don’t want to play games,” she said finally.

“Neither do I.”

“Good. So tell me who she was.”

I blinked. “You saw.”

“Of course I saw. I didn’t say anything because I wanted to believe you’d bring it up yourself. But you didn’t. That’s strike one.”

I leaned forward. “Constance...”

“Don’t,” she said, holding up a hand. “Don’t try to pacify me. Just tell me. Who was she?”

I looked away, the truth clawing up my throat.

“Her name was Ijeoma. We were... nothing serious. A mistake. A long one. From two years ago. Before I started trying to be better.”

She nodded, lips pursed. “And the photo?”

“I didn’t know it existed. I swear. Someone’s trying to mess with me. Or with us.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So there is an ‘us’?”

“I want there to be.”

She sat back in her chair, exhaled. “Do you know how insane it is to feel like someone could be perfect for you and still be terrified of what they’re capable of?”

I stayed quiet.

“I don’t like being blindsided, Samuel,” she continued. “I’ve had that happen before. Men pretending to be different when all they want is the chase.”

“This isn’t about the chase for me.”

“No?” she asked, voice rising slightly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it feels like you’re playing the same damn game. Making me feel safe just long enough to lower my guard.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not? Then what is it?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Tell me why I shouldn’t run right now.”

“Because I’ve never been more afraid to lose someone.”

She looked at me then; really looked. And her expression softened for just a second.

Then she whispered, “I’m going to your place tonight.”

I froze. “What?”

“I want answers. All of them. I want to see what’s behind the version of you that you keep trying to sell me. I want the mess. I want the ghosts. I want to know who the hell I’m falling for.”

My heart beat hard against my ribs. “Okay.”

“But if I find anything else that makes me question this? I’m gone.”

I nodded slowly. “Deal.”

She followed me home that night. Silent, unreadable.

I let her in, stepped aside as she walked past me and into my space like it was foreign territory. Her eyes scanned the shelves, the pictures, the books. She was putting pieces together without asking questions.

She turned to face me. “Start talking.”

So I did.

I told her everything. About my past, the women, the ego, the emptiness. I told her about the nights I drank too much, the mistakes I made, the way I used to love being adored until I realized it meant nothing if there was no one real beside me when I woke up.

She listened.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t interrupt.

When I was done, she sat on the edge of my couch, her fingers interlocked tightly in her lap.

“I want to believe you,” she said quietly.

“Then do.”

She looked up. “What if I already have, and I’m just scared that it’s a mistake?”

I knelt in front of her, took her hands. “Then let it be a mistake we both learn from.”

A long pause stretched between us. Her eyes glistened like she was on the edge of something.

“I need to know something,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

“Did you ever love her?”

I shook my head slowly. “No. I didn’t even know what love looked like until I met you.”

A single tear slipped from her eye.

Then she reached for me.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt as she pulled me into her arms, holding me tight like she was trying to feel the truth through my heartbeat. I held her back just as tightly.

We stayed there for what felt like forever.

But forever ended with a knock on my door.

Firm.

Loud.

Urgent.

I stood, confused. Constance followed me with her eyes, her body tensing.

I walked to the door.

Another knock.

When I opened it, I froze.

It was her.

Ijeoma.

Looking stunning. Cold. Smiling.

And she wasn’t alone.

There was a man standing beside her. Tall. Sharp. Angry.

“You’re Samuel Fray?” he asked.

I nodded slowly.

“Good,” he said.

And then he punched me hard square in the jaw.