Between The Lies

That's the first thought that hits me every morning, and tonight—standing in my kitchen at 11 PM, pretending to care about orange juice—it's the only thought that matters. The house is dead quiet. Mom and Dad are in Singapore or Tokyo or wherever the hell rich people go to make more money. They left three days ago. Won't be back for another two weeks, minimum. It's been like this for years, but lately the emptiness feels different. Heavier. Like the silence knows what I'm thinking and it's judging me for it. "You gonna drink that or just hold it hostage?" My hand jerks. Orange juice sloshes over the rim. Stella. I don't turn around right away. I need a second to get my face right, to bury everything threatening to surface. When I do look at her, it's the same punch to the gut it's been for the past six months. She's wearing my hoodie. The black one that went missing from my room last week. It's huge on her, sleeves covering her hands, hem hitting mid-thigh. She's got it pulled up over her nose like she always does when she's cold, and underneath I can see these tiny shorts that make my brain go static. I look away. Force myself to. "Just thinking," I mutter, setting the carton down harder than I mean to. "About?" She pads across the kitchen tiles in bare feet, and I track the sound like she's a car alarm I can't ignore. When she reaches past me for a glass, her arm brushes mine. I feel it everywhere. "Nothing important." I step sideways, putting space between us. I've gotten good at that. The casual retreat. The invisible wall. Stella fills her glass at the sink. "Mom called earlier. Tokyo merger. They're staying another two weeks." "Shocking." "You don't have to sound so bitter about it." "I'm not bitter." I am. But not about them. About everything else. About the fact that it's just us in this massive house and I can't even be in the same room with her without my thoughts going places they shouldn't. "Just tired." She leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of her glass. Stella's always been able to see through my bullshit, but lately I've worked overtime to make sure she can't see this. "You've been 'tired' for like three months. What's actually going on?" Nothing. Everything. I'm in love with you and it's killing me. "School. Music. The usual." I grab my phone off the counter even though I don't need it. Anything to look busy. "Showcase is next week and the song's not ready." Her face lights up the way it always does when I mention music, and it hurts. "Can I hear it?" "It's not done." "So? I've heard your rough drafts before." "This one's different." "Different how?" Different because every word is about you. Because I can't play it without feeling like I'm confessing to a crime. Because if you heard it—really heard it—you'd know. "Just different," I say. "You'll hear it at the showcase with everyone else." Something flickers across her face. Hurt, maybe. Or confusion. I've been shutting her out for months and she doesn't understand why. How could she? I'm her brother. Her big brother who's supposed to be there for her, not avoiding her like she's contagious. "Okay," she says quietly. Then, after a pause: "Want to watch something? We could order food. It's Friday, and we're both free for once." The offer is so simple. So normal. Siblings hanging out on a Friday night. Except there's nothing simple about the way my heart's hammering at the thought of sitting next to her on the couch. Nothing normal about how badly I want to say yes. Which is exactly why I can't. "I've got homework." "Luca, it's almost midnight." "Yeah, and I procrastinated. Rain check?" I don't wait for her answer. I'm already moving, already putting distance between us before I do something stupid. Before I stay. Before I let myself pretend this could ever be okay. I take the stairs two at a time, my chest tight. Behind me, silence. Then the soft clink of glass on marble. I'm halfway down the hall when I hear her bedroom door close. Not a slam. Worse. The kind of quiet that means she's hurt and trying not to show it. My room feels like a cell. I lean against the door and drag both hands through my hair, trying to breathe normally. This is fine. I'm fine. I just need to keep my distance until these feelings disappear. They have to disappear eventually, right? That's how it works. You don't feed something and it starves. Simple. Except it's been six months and I'm hungrier than ever. My guitar sits in the corner like it's mocking me. I grab it and drop onto my bed, fingers finding chords before my brain catches up. The song. The one I can't let her hear. It starts soft. Sad. All minor chords and unresolved progressions because that's what this is—unresolved. Impossible. A story without an ending because there's no version where this works out. "Brown eyes and stolen hoodies, secrets I can't say..." I'm barely singing, more like whispering to the empty room. It's the only place I can be honest. The only place these feelings are allowed to exist. My phone buzzes. Derek: yo party at Jake's tomorrow night. You in? Derek. My best friend since freshman year. Good guy. Funny. Loyal. Also completely, obviously into my sister. The thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth hurt. Derek: Stella coming? 👀 I stare at that emoji for way too long. Luca: Don't know. Maybe. Derek: Bro you gotta help me out. Put in a good word? Yeah. Sure. Let me tell my best friend to go ahead and date my sister while I slowly lose my mind. Sounds great. Luca: She makes her own choices Derek: Come on man, you know I'm into her. Been trying for months. Think she likes me? I want to throw my phone across the room. Luca: Ask her yourself I toss the phone onto my nightstand and go back to the guitar, playing harder now. Angry. The strings bite into my fingers but I don't stop. Derek's a good guy. Stella could do worse. She could do a lot worse than someone who actually has the right to want her, who isn't her messed-up brother with feelings that would destroy everything if they ever saw daylight. I should want this for her. Should want her to be happy with someone normal. But the thought of his hands on her, his mouth on hers, makes me want to break something. I play until my fingers ache. Until the song is wrung out of me and pooled on the floor in notes I'll never let anyone else hear. Across the hall, Stella's light is still on. I can see it under her door from the crack under mine. She's probably reading. Or scrolling through her phone. Or wondering why her brother turned into a stranger. My phone buzzes again. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me check. Unknown: This is Mia (Stella's friend). Is Stella okay? She seems off lately. Great. Now her friends are noticing. I don't respond. What am I supposed to say? Yeah, your friend is fine, but I'm falling apart because I can't stop thinking about her in ways that would get me disowned if anyone found out? I set my guitar aside and lie back, staring at the ceiling. The house settles around me—pipes creaking, AC humming, all the sounds of expensive emptiness. Tomorrow I'll go to that party. I'll watch Derek flirt with my sister. I'll smile and act normal and pretend my entire world isn't built on a lie that gets harder to maintain every single day. Because that's what I do now. I lie. To Derek. To Mia. To Stella. To myself. I lie and I keep my distance and I write songs I'll never let her hear, and maybe—if I'm lucky—these feelings will fade before they destroy everything. But deep down, in the part of me I don't let see daylight, I know the truth. I'm not lucky. And these feelings aren't fading. If anything, they're getting worse. My phone lights up one more time. Stella: I miss you. Two words. That's all it takes to crack me open. I stare at the message for a full minute, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could say it back. Could tell her I miss her too, that I miss us, that I hate what I've become. But I don't. Instead, I turn my phone face-down and close my eyes. Because missing her is the least of my problems. The real problem is that I want her. And that want is going to ruin us both.