Ever since my parents divorced, the world around me had grown quiet. Dad moved to a different city, and I followed, leaving behind everything familiar. The new house felt cold and foreign at first, but I didn’t complain—because deep down, I knew things would never be the same again.
A few months later, a woman named Miyuki appeared in Dad’s life. She smiled gently, cooked delicious meals, and treated me kindly. I thought I would hate her, simply because she wasn’t my mom. But strangely, I couldn’t bring myself to dislike her.
She brought someone else with her—her daughter, Mio. A year older than me, Mio wasn’t talkative. On her first day here, she just sat quietly on the couch, reading a book, as if uninterested in this new “family” of hers. But maybe that was what drew me to her. I was curious.
Over time, we grew close. We had breakfast together, commuted to school side by side, studied in the afternoons, watched anime, and talked about our dreams. She wanted to attend art school. I still wasn’t sure what I wanted. She became a part of my everyday life—like sunlight quietly spilling into my dim little room.
One day, after I failed a test, I locked myself in my room, too embarrassed to face anyone. Mio came in without a word and placed her sketchbook on my desk. On the page, she had drawn me—sitting at my desk, studying with determination in my eyes. That moment warmed something deep inside me. From then on, I realized my eyes kept following her. Her smile made my heart skip. Her voice lingered longer in my mind.
Slowly, painfully, I realized: I liked her.
But that feeling made me confused and ashamed. We weren’t blood-related—but we lived under the same roof, shared meals, called each other’s parents “Mom” and “Dad.” She was, in every sense that mattered, my sister.
And yet… I couldn’t stop it. Every time she leaned close to help me with homework, every time she sat on my bed listening to music, or even just lay on the floor staring at the ceiling—I felt something bloom inside me, something I wasn’t supposed to feel.
One night, I sat at my desk pretending to study, my head full of thoughts of her. Mio walked in and leaned over my shoulder to look at my notebook.
“Having trouble with this problem?” she asked gently. “I can help.”
I kept my eyes down, clutching my hair, and mumbled, “Mio… what if there’s something I want to say, but I know I can’t?”
She paused for a second, then smiled softly. “Then keep it safe in your heart,” she said, “and maybe one day, when you’ve grown up, you’ll know what to do.”
I nodded, the words I couldn’t say lodged deep in my throat.
That night, I finally understood—some feelings aren’t meant to bloom. They’re like seeds in winter: hidden, silent, waiting… but never meant to grow.
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