Dear heart you screwed up

Chapter two

The world felt like a series of closed doors that I was slowly learning to unlock. My obsession with Diego was a secret language I spoke only in my head, a silent anthem that played on a loop through the hallways of our home. But I was not as invisible as I liked to believe. My older sister, Grace, had begun to cast long, questioning shadows over my behavior, her eyes narrowing whenever Diego’s name was mentioned or whenever I lingered too long in the entryway waiting for the crunch of his tires on the gravel.

Grace was everything I wasn't, pretty, poised, academic, and seemingly oblivious to the dark undercurrents that defined my existence. She was preparing to head back to college, her suitcase a constant reminder of the life that lay beyond our small, suffocating town. I despised the way she watched me. There was a clinical detachment to her scrutiny, as if she were trying to diagnose a sickness she couldn't quite name. She didn't understand that what she perceived as puppy love was actually the foundation of a devotion so absolute it defied the very laws of family and propriety.

The tension was thickest at the dinner table. My father, Joe, would recount stories of Diego’s latest hockey exploits, his voice booming with pride. I would sit there, silent, absorbing every detail, while Grace would watch me from across the table, her fork suspended in mid air. She saw the way I went rigid when his name was spoken. She saw the way my breath hitched, the way my eyes glazed over as I built my internal shrine to his existence. She was getting suspicious. I could see it in the way she’d tilt her head, the way she’d subtly change the subject whenever I tried to interject a comment about his life.

"You're obsessed, Amy," she whispered one night in our shared room, the darkness providing a thin veil of safety.

"I'm not," I replied, my voice cold, devoid of the defensiveness she expected. I was learning to mask, to present a facade of normalcy that would deflect her curiosity.

"I see how you look at him," she countered, her tone shifting from accusatory to concerned. "It's not normal. He’s Dad’s best friend. He’s practically family. You need to focus on school, on your friends, on things that are... age appropriate."

I turned away from her, staring at the patch of moonlight on the floorboards. She had no idea. She didn't know the way Diego’s hand felt against my skin, the weight of the secrets he buried in the quiet, empty spaces between his travels. She didn't know that I was already living in a future where she was merely a background character, a witness to a story she was too narrow minded to comprehend.

The days leading up to Grace’s departure felt like a war of attrition. She tried to save me, to force me into the mold of a standard, carefree adolescent. She dragged me to town, tried to involve me in her conversations, and interrogated me about my thoughts and feelings with a persistence that made my teeth ache. I played the part, the dutiful, slightly distracted younger sister, all the while counting down the hours until she would leave for college. Her absence would be my liberation. Without her watchful, skeptical gaze, I could fully inhabit the space Diego occupied in my mind.

On the day she left, the air in the house felt lighter, cleansed of her judgmental presence. I stood on the porch and watched her car pull away, feeling a surge of triumph that was almost intoxicating. The barrier to my world had been removed. I was twelve, and I was finally alone with the obsession that consumed me. The house was mine, the silence was mine, and the anticipation of Diego’s return was a fire that burned steady and bright, unhindered by the doubt of others. I looked toward the driveway, imagining the dust kicking up as his truck pulled in, and I knew with a certainty that chilled my blood that everything was unfolding exactly as it was meant to.

The tension in our shared room had been a palpable, suffocating entity for weeks, but the night before Grace was scheduled to depart for college, the atmosphere finally shattered. She was packing, her movements sharp and aggressive, tossing books and sweaters into her trunk with a disregard that made my skin crawl. I sat on my bed, watching her with a stillness that seemed to irritate her further. I was twelve, yet I possessed a calmness that unsettled the adults and teenagers in my orbit alike.

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" Grace snapped, slamming the trunk shut. She turned on me, her eyes red-rimmed and fierce. "You think hiding in your head makes you invisible. But I see the way you look at him. I see the way you wait for him, like a dog at the door. It's pathetic, Amy."

I didn't blink. I didn't even shift my posture. "You don't understand anything," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the room with the precision of a razor. "You look at Diego and you see my father’s friend. You see an adult, a guest, a hockey player. But that’s just the mask he wears for the world. You’ve never actually seen him."

Grace walked toward me, her hands trembling. "He is an adult, Amy. He is a grown man. And you are a child who doesn't understand the difference between reality and the sick fantasies you’re building in your brain. When I’m gone, there won't be anyone here to tell you that this is wrong. To tell you that you're ruining your own life before it even starts."

"I am not ruining anything," I countered, standing up slowly. I was shorter than her, but in that moment, the power dynamic in the room tilted. "I am simply waiting. And unlike you, I know exactly what I am waiting for."

"You're delusional," she hissed, though her voice wavered. She looked at me, truly looked at me, and for a second, I saw fear in her eyes. It wasn't the fear of a sister for a sibling who was acting out; it was the fear of someone who had caught a glimpse of something truly, irrevocably broken. "I hope for your sake that he never figures out what’s going on in your head. Because if he does, he’ll leave. He’ll never come back here again. And then you’ll have nothing."

"He won't leave," I said, the certainty in my voice absolute. I knew the way he looked at me, not as a child, but as a secret he was keeping from the rest of the world. "He can't."

Grace stared at me for a long, agonizing minute, searching for some sign of the girl I used to be before she packed the rest of her belongings in total silence. The confrontation hung in the air, a poisonous, lingering vapor that refused to dissipate. She didn't say another word to me that night, and the next morning, she left for college without even a goodbye.

I watched her car vanish down the street from my bedroom window, a profound sense of relief washing over me. The confrontation had only served to solidify my resolve. She had tried to project her own limitations onto me, to define my obsession as something transient and normal. She failed to grasp that my feelings for Diego were not a phase; they were the defining architecture of my life.

With Grace gone, the house regained its familiar, oppressive quiet, a quiet that felt like an invitation. I went to her vacated side of the room and rearranged the space to better reflect my own sanctuary. I was twelve years old, and for the first time, I felt like the true mistress of my environment. I spent the afternoon cataloging my thoughts, writing down the specific details of Diego’s last visit in my journal. I mapped out the days, the weeks, the months I would have to endure until I saw him again. Every hour spent away from him was a test of my discipline, a necessary ritual of purification. I was not just waiting; I was preparing. I was hardening my heart and sharpening my focus, ensuring that when the time finally came, when I was older, when the distance was bridged, I would be ready to take what was rightfully mine. The silence of the house was no longer a void; it was a canvas, and I was the artist of my own singular, consuming fate.