I stared at the notebook for a long time.

It was sitting exactly where she’d been—perched on the edge of the guest chair, forgotten in her rush to leave. The black leather cover was worn at the corners, the edges soft from too many nights clutching it too tightly.

Her journal.

Her truth.

A part of her she didn’t mean to give me.

I told myself I’d return it tomorrow. Slip it back into her hands with that cold, professional tone she always expected from me.

But I didn’t pick it up right away.

I circled the room. Poured myself a glass of water I didn’t drink. Sat behind my desk. Stared at the closed door. I tried to reason with myself.

Don’t read it.
It’s a violation of her privacy.
It’s wrong.

But the wrongness tasted sweet. Addictive.

Because part of me had already read her—in the way she flinched when someone raised their voice, the way she avoided mirrors, the way she clutched her sleeves like armour. I knew she carried something heavy.

But not what. Not how deep.

I reached for it, held it in my hands like something sacred.

I told myself I’d only glance.

Just one page.

But the second I opened it, I didn’t stop.

…..<...*~*...>.....

February 4
The nightmares came back. I don’t remember the moment of impact—just the sound. Metal. Screaming. Silence.
I remember his hand slipping from mine.
He looked so peaceful. Like sleeping.
But I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

My throat tightened.

I flipped further. Her handwriting got shakier in certain places. Like she’d written with her hands trembling.

March 17
Mom told me again today that I should’ve died instead.
She doesn’t cry when she says it anymore.

God.

She wrote like she’d already accepted it—that she was unwanted, unloved, tolerated out of obligation.

And yet, she kept moving.

She kept breathing.

I turned to another page.

And then… I saw it.

A drawing. Childlike. Pencil lines fading with age. Two kids. One with messy black hair. The other is taller. Cruel eyes. A third figure in the corner. Smaller. Watching. Holding a toy airplane.

Joon was always loud. Always liked being the center of attention.
But I remember that boy he used to pick on… the quiet one.
He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. His shirts were always too small. His hands shook when Joon cornered him.
I started packing an extra sandwich for lunch. Hid it in his locker before class.

My breath hitched.

No.

It couldn’t be.

I closed my eyes—and the memory hit me like a storm.

[Flashback]

I was sixteen.
Alone. Scrawny. Worn sneakers. A bruised shoulder.

The world saw me as disposable.
But Joon—he made sure I felt it.

That day, he had me pinned against the side of the school building. One hand balled into my shirt, the other curling into a fist he didn’t even need to raise anymore. His power wasn’t in his strength.
It was in the fact that no one ever stopped him.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come near the gym, freak?” he hissed, breathing hot with the stink of cafeteria fries and ego.

His friends laughed. The kind of laughter that doesn’t sound real—it echoes in your skull long after it ends.

I didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Stared at the pavement like it would open up and swallow me if I just looked hard enough.

“You think you're too good for us, huh?”
“Look at his face. Like a kicked dog.”
“Should’ve stayed in the trash where you came from.”

They ripped my bag off my shoulder, unzipped it, dumped the contents onto the gravel like it meant nothing. My notebook—my only one—landed in a puddle. The sandwich I'd saved was crushed beneath Joon’s foot.

I closed my eyes.

Just let it pass.
Let it pass.
Let it—

“Joon.”

The voice sliced through the air. Small. Clear. Feminine.

He paused.

Slowly, we all turned.

She was standing five feet away, arms crossed tightly around a stack of books. Big cardigan sleeves. Too-large shoes. Brown eyes are too serious for her age.

Her voice didn’t shake. But her fingers did.

“That’s enough.”

Joon laughed. “Seriously?”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“And why do you care?” He snapped. “You’re my sister. This isn’t your business.”

My eyes widened.

Sister?

That was when I saw it—the resemblance. The same sharp jawline. The same eyes. Only hers held light where his held fire.

“I said it’s enough.” She repeated, firmer this time. “You’re better than this.”

“Don’t tell me what I am.” He growled.

Their friends shifted awkwardly. Joon didn’t like being challenged—especially not by her.

“Let him go.” She said again.

Something in her voice… I don’t know what it was. Not defiance. Not fear.
Conviction.

And for some reason, Joon actually listened.

He let go.

Shoved me one last time. Kicked my ruined sandwich toward the drain.

“You got lucky.” He muttered.

Then they left.

All of them.

Leaving just me… and her.

I was still crouched, frozen, breathing shallow. My arms trembled as I tried to gather my things.

She stepped forward quietly. No words. No pity. She knelt beside me.

Picked up my notebook and shook off the water.

“Your pen broke.” She murmured, brushing the pieces into her palm. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I croaked. My voice cracked. I hated that it cracked.

Then, without looking at me, she reached into her own bag.

Pulled out a sandwich. Peanut butter. Wrapped in foil. Simple.

And gently… She placed it inside my backpack.

“Here.” She whispered. “For later.”

I stared at her.

“You’re his sister.”

“I know.”

“Why would you help me?”

She finally looked at me. Straight in the eyes.

“Because someone should.”

And then she stood. Brushed gravel off her knees.

“Don’t tell anyone I did that.” She added, almost playfully.

And walked away.

She was so small.

[Flashback End]

The journal slipped from my hands.

I sat there in stunned silence, the pieces crashing into place.

She cared for me—before I became this version of myself.

And I…

I had been watching her like a stranger, wanting her. Wanting to unravel her. Not realising she had already stitched herself into my life years ago.

This wasn't an obsession anymore.

This was something older.

Deeper.

Fated.

And now that I remembered her—now that I saw her for who she was—I knew one thing with dangerous clarity:

I couldn’t stay away.

Love. I used to believe I wasn’t made for it.

Maybe I never was.

Not after what was done to me. Not after I learned how to survive with silence instead of warmth. People talk about trauma like it breaks you in one moment, one explosion—but mine was quieter. Like frostbite. Slow. Numbing. Piece by piece, I froze from the inside out.

Until nothing was left.

No softness. No warmth.
Only control.
Only rules.

And I followed them. I built a life on precision. On power. On making sure no one could touch the real parts of me ever again.

But then she walked in—late, hesitant, eyes down—and somewhere between the first time she spoke and the way her voice trembled, something cracked.

Y/N.

And now her journal sat in front of me like a wound I wanted to press my fingers into.

She wasn’t just a student anymore.

She was the echo of a girl who used to save half her lunch for the quiet boy in bruised sleeves.

She was a mirror.

Of pain. Of guilt. Of the loneliness I’ve buried so deep it grew roots.

And the worst part?

She made me feel something again.

Not just want. Not just obsession.
Something dangerously close to love.

But I couldn’t name it.

Because I don’t trust love. Not anymore. Not in my hands.

Everything I’ve ever loved has either left… or bled.

And she’s too soft for that.

Too real.

Too... mine.

God, I shouldn’t want her like this. Not when I see the cracks in her. Not when I’ve studied every detail of her pain like scripture.

But I do.

And I can’t stop.

[An hour later]

I stood by the window, her journal still open behind me.

The city lights glared through the glass like judgment. But all I could see was her face when she read that quote I’d left in the book.
“I don’t feel real.”

I saw the flicker in her eyes.

The ache because I feel it too.

More than I care to admit.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the impulse to go to her right now. To knock on her door and make her look at me—really look—and tell me if she remembers.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

Because once I cross that line… there’s no coming back.

And I don’t trust myself with her.
Not when she’s already under my skin.
Not when I wake up thinking about her voice.
Not when I’m already starting to need her.

I ran a hand through my hair, my reflection glaring back at me from the dark windowpane.

“I can’t love her,” I said out loud.

But the moment the words left my mouth, they felt like a lie.

Because maybe I already do.

Not gently.
Not purely.
But with the kind of hunger that keeps you awake at night.

The kind that ruins you.

And if she ever gives me the smallest piece of herself willingly—

I won’t be able to let her go.