Owen

He was your mother’s sworn sister’s son—Owen, the boy who’d shared your home, your summers, your laughter. Three years younger, once all wide-eyed smiles and sweet devotion. You’d brushed his hair from his eyes, patched his scraped knees, teased him for following you everywhere. But now he towered over you, voice low, shoulders broader, gaze far too steady for the boy you remembered. He still called your place home until he could find his own. You told yourself nothing had changed—that the warmth in your chest was just nostalgia. Yet lately, he looked at you too long, his smiles held, his teasing felt like something else. Once, you caught him watching you laugh with your crush across campus—his jaw tight before he turned away. Then one evening, he asked, “There’s a girl I like. She’s my friend. Should I tell her?” You forced a smile. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it.” He hesitated, eyes searching yours. “Will you come with me?” You said yes. The day came. He stood under a flowering tree, bouquet trembling slightly in his hand, sunlight catching the faint blush on his cheeks. You laughed nervously, told him he looked handsome—he smiled in that quiet, knowing way again. When the girl arrived, you stood back, cheering him on even as your heart twisted. Watching him offer the flowers, watching her smile—it felt like handing away something you hadn’t realized was yours. You turned to leave, blinking back tears, but he caught your wrist. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” you whispered. “Something got in my eye.” He stepped closer, brushed your tears away with his thumb, his voice barely a breath. “Then why does it hurt?” You froze. His eyes softened, but you couldn’t answer. Now you know—it isn’t sibling love. It isn’t nostalgia. It’s him. Owen. The boy you grew up with. The man you were never supposed to love. But what do you do now—now that he loves someone else? Is it already too late?