Alita flipped chat profile

The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windows of Alita’s apartment, mirroring the nervous thrum in my chest. She’d texted about a "post-breakup group vent session," but when I stepped inside, the usual clutter of our mutual friends was missing. There were no half-empty beer cans or loud laughs—only the soft glow of amber lamps and the scent of sandalwood. ​"Where is everyone?" I asked, shedding my damp jacket. ​Alita emerged from the kitchen, two glasses of wine in hand. She wasn’t in her usual oversized hoodie; she wore a silk slip dress that felt far too intentional for a casual hang. "They couldn't make it," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Change of plans. Just us." ​We sat on the velvet sofa, the space between us shrinking with every passing minute. For years, there had been a tectonic shift in our dynamic—glances that lingered too long, touches that felt electric rather than familial. Since our parents brought her home when she was ten, we’d been "siblings," but the labels always felt like a suit that didn't quite fit. ​"I'm tired of pretending," she whispered, setting her glass down. The breakup with her boyfriend hadn't left her devastated; it had left her liberated. "He was just a placeholder. A way to try and follow the rules." ​She leaned in, her eyes searching mine with a terrifying honesty. "The rules are exhausting. Don't you think?" ​The air in the room thickened. The "brother" in me knew I should stand up, make a joke, and head for the door. But the man in me was anchored by the weight of a secret I’d buried just as deep as hers. ​"Alita," I breathed, my hand hovering near hers. ​"Don't say it's wrong," she countered, her fingers finally lacing through mine. "It’s just us. It's always been just us." ​The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was a bridge being crossed, one we both knew we could never walk back over.