I stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. The quiet hum of the night lingered, but inside, the house was silent—almost too silent. I leaned against the door, letting out a slow breath, trying to steady the storm inside her chest.
I had done the right thing.I had to believe that.
Yet, as I stood there, my fingers curled into fists, and the weight of my own words pressed down on me.
"A person always desires what they can't have. And they never value what's already theirs."
Why had I said that? Why had I made it sound so easy?
A dull ache settled in her chest as I pushed away from the door and made my way upstairs. Each step felt heavier than the last. By the time I reached My room, exhaustion clung to me—not just from the day, but from the weight of everything left unsaid.
I sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the dark screen of my phone. A part of me wanted to send a message, to take back those words, to tell Rei the truth.
But i didn't.
Because the truth was far more complicated than a simple yes or no.
Because loving someone wasn't just about feeling—it was about choosing. And I had made her choice.
A soft knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.
"Aira?"
I straightened, recognizing the voice instantly.
It was Kyra.My younger sister
I took a deep breath before answering. "Come in."
The door creaked open, and Kyra stepped inside, her expression laced with concern. She didn't say anything at first—just walked over and sat beside me on the bed.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then, Kyra finally asked, "Did something happen?"
I swallowed, looking down at her hands. "No," I lied.
Kyra sighed. "You're a terrible liar, you know."
I let out a soft laugh, but it held no real amusement.I didn't want to talk about it—not now, not when the wound was still fresh.
But Kyra wasn't one to let things go so easily.
"Was it Rei?" she asked, watching me carefully.
I stiffened. That was all the answer Kyra needed.
She didn't push, didn't demand an explanation. Instead, she simply said, "You don't have to tell me anything. But if you ever need to talk, I'm here."
I blinked, surprised by how much those words meant.
For the first time that night, the weight on my chest felt a little lighter.
I nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Kyra."
Kyra smiled back. "Always."
And just like that, the silence between them wasn't so heavy anymore.
"Come on, it's late. Get some sleep," Kyra said as she stood up.
"Good night," I murmured as she walked away.
She closed the door behind her, leaving me alone in the dim glow of my bedside lamp. That night, I thought about everything—every word, every unspoken feeling, every moment I wished I could rewrite.
And then, I cried.
I cried like I wanted to drown out the ache in my chest, like I could wash away the weight of emotions I had been holding back for too long. The kind of crying that makes your shoulders shake, that leaves you breathless, that makes you feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.
I cried until exhaustion pulled me under, until my body gave in, and sleep took me—my last thought a whisper in the silence.
If only forgetting was as easy as falling asleep.