After being stuck at home for weeks since my incident, I don't think I've ever been more bored in my life. I've already cleaned the house top to bottom, and now there's nothing left to do but doomscroll on Instagram.
Even that's not entertaining anymore. I keep landing on the toxic corners of the app, like redpill content or anti-men's rights posts. They're filled with rants about how men should be locked indoors and how we're somehow to blame for being raped so often. It's frustrating and just makes me feel worse.
I don't even have Elara to keep me company. She's gone from eight to three, and those hours drag on forever.
Without her, the house feels hollow — like every sound just echoes back at me. I hate how empty I get when she's not here. It makes me feel pathetic, like there's something wrong with needing her this much.
I decided to send her a text, just checking in to see how things were going at her job. As I typed, a nagging voice in my head told me I was being too clingy, but in the end, I hit send anyway.
I sat there, staring at my phone, daydreaming about her until a reply finally came:
"Hi Noah, I'm just arranging some files. What do you need?"
Reading her words, a wave of relief washed over me. I felt... lighter, almost comforted, like a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying had finally lifted.
"How much longer before you come home... :(" I typed, craving her arms, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
This time she read it—but didn't respond. A bead of sweat formed on my forehead. Did I mess up? Was I being too clingy? I paced around the living room, trying to reason out why she hadn't replied.
Then my phone dinged.
"Just checked. I can get out an hour earlier today... I'll be home by two."
Relief washed over me like a tide. She didn't hate me. She wasn't upset. She was just... checking.
I laughed quietly to myself as I hearted her message. "I really need a hobby..." I muttered, scrolling through apps, hoping something would grab my attention.
And then, finally, something did. A tweet caught my eye — a girl claiming her man had been taken by his sister.
For a moment, I felt a pang of sympathy. But when I clicked through to her profile, the sympathy evaporated. Every post was filled with racist and anti-masculinist nonsense, shared and reposted like badges of pride.
"I really can't escape this shit, can I..." I muttered, tossing my phone aside and flipping on the TV. Maybe that'd be different, right?
The first channel I landed on was airing an episode of Love Island. I'd never understood the appeal of these shows. They make men look like himbo crybabies, existing only for sex, like that was all we were good for.
I flipped to another channel, only to be greeted by a dude's bulge. I switched off immediately, my stomach twisting. Finally, I landed on the news channel — the one station I trusted not to be spewing complete bullshit.
"Breaking news as we report the tragic death of 18-year-old Bryce Taylor, who was brutally gang-raped and beaten to death by four women last Thursday. Authorities state the attack was premeditated, orchestrated by the lead woman who had been repeatedly rejected by Bryce. All four suspects have been arrested and are awaiting trial. This marks the twentieth rape-murder this month."
The headline hit me hard. I didn't know Bryce personally, but from the few times we talked, he was nothing but kind and gentle. He didn't deserve the horrific fate he suffered.
I was too stunned to speak. That could've been me. Before, I'd been scared to go out — now, I was truly, utterly terrified.
I buried my face in my hands, hot tears streaming down. The realization hit me like a punch: I was screwed. I couldn't trust anyone but my sister to protect me. Everyone else I talked to... they wanted the same awful things.
I wiped the tears from my eyes with my sleeve, sniffling as I grabbed my phone. The least I could do was reach out to Bryce's family, offer some words during their hard time.
It didn't take long to find them. His mother's Facebook was practically empty — nothing but her profile picture remained. She must be grieving terribly.
I typed quickly, my hands shaking slightly:
"Hi, this is Noah Miller. I know you don't know me, but I knew your son a little. I'm really sorry for your loss. I know it must be unbearable, but please remember that Bryce is in a better place now."
I hit send and tossed my phone onto the side of the couch, feeling the weight of helplessness settle on me.
The news droned on, listing upcoming projects, city plans, and cultural events. I decided it was probably best to stay ignorant of any more terrible updates before my sadness and anger got even worse.
"Guess I'll watch some Elden Ring gameplay..." I muttered, trying to distract myself from the weight pressing down on me.
-
Time passed with ease as I watched Elden Ring speedruns. For once, it was nice to see something that wasn't negative — no news, no drama, no politics. Just pure focus and skill. It helped keep my mind distracted, at least for a little while.
My peace shattered when I heard the familiar creak of the front door opening. I turned my head, and there she was — my sister, still in her work clothes. Her hair was slightly messy from the day, a few strands catching the light as she stepped in. There was a quiet confidence about her, the kind that made the rest of the world blur into the background. To me, in that moment, she looked unreal — too beautiful for the dull grayness of our little home.
"Did you miss me?" she asks, flopping onto the couch beside me, her arm sliding around my shoulders and tugging me close until my face pressed against the soft curve of her sideboob.
"Yeah, I'm bored and miserable without you," I mumble into her warmth. She pulls my head back gently, her fingers brushing my chin as she tilts my face up. Her eyes lock on mine, intense, like she's studying every inch of me, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
Before I can get another word out, her lips slam against mine, catching me completely off guard.
For a fleeting moment, I surrender to the kiss, lost in the heat of it, but then reality hits like a punch—I'm kissing my own sister. I jerk back, my heart pounding.
I slap a hand over my mouth, torn between shock and something I can't name. "W-What the fuck, Elara?"
"What's wrong, Noah?" she asked, her expression clouded with uncertainty over what she'd just done.
"You just kissed me..." I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. A frown creases her brow as she registers my reaction. "I need some time to think." I rise from the couch, feeling the weight of the moment. Her hand catches my wrist, tugging me back with a desperate grip, but I pull harder, breaking free. I head to my room, the sound of the door shutting behind me echoing in the quiet space.