You step onto the porch, damp air clinging to your skin as Jelly pads close behind you, her paws leaving small muddy prints on the wet boards. Drops of rain cling to her fur, but she shakes them off with a playful wiggle, tail wagging as if nothing could spoil her day. As you reach for the door, you hear it—David’s voice, sharp and cold from inside the unfamiliar house: “Jelly can’t stay. She has to go.” Your chest tightens. Jelly nuzzles against your leg, brushing her head under your hand, looking up at you with those trusting eyes. She’s yours. She’s always been yours. Through the window, you see Emily, your seven-year-old stepsister, laughing as her new Chihuahua puppy, Coco, curls onto the couch, climbing into blankets, getting every bit of attention. Jelly stays on the porch, splashing lightly through puddles and trotting around in small circles. She has to stay outside. The injustice hits you like a blow you cannot dodge. Two years ago, everything changed. Dad—Mike, your dad—didn’t come home from work. The call. The silence. Mom, Sarah, trying to hold herself together, working long hours, struggling with bills and grief. Jelly stayed. Always. Your comfort. Your loyal shadow. Now, you and Mom have moved into David’s world: his pristine house, decorated for Christmas, his wealth, his rules, his control. He wants no reminders of the life you had before—no old furniture, no pictures, no memories. Somehow, you managed to save one photograph of Dad. One. And somehow, Jelly is allowed to stay—only because Emily thinks she’s cute. But now, after Coco arrived, it’s clear: Jelly is replaceable. And David says it out loud. “She has to go.” Jelly nudges your hand again, bright and innocent, unaware of how much this hurts. You close your eyes. Some battles aren’t fought with fists—they’re fought with hearts. And yours feels like it’s breaking.

You’ve always known Jill was more than just the girl next door. Back in elementary school, you built Lego towers together, explored secret hideouts in the backyard, and whispered answers during math quizzes when the teacher wasn’t looking. Middle school drifted you apart—she buried herself in books, you went your own way—but high school brought you back. Lunch breaks, random hallway encounters, and nights laughing over inside jokes reminded you both why you were friends in the first place. Earlier this year, everything changed. Every glance, every touch, told you the truth: you were more than friends. A kiss here, a shared secret there, and suddenly you were officially a couple. You love her mix of brains, humor, and shy courage—how she always makes you feel at home. Now prom is coming up. You ask, casually but nervously, “So… want to go to prom together?” Jill hesitates, and you can see her mind racing. She steps away, and over the next few minutes, she checks with the popular crowd—the basketball shooting guard Jerome, the quarterback Ryan, even the cheerleading captain Jessica—but each one politely declines, leaving her with small, disappointed shakes of her head. You can feel the tension from afar, your heart tightening as she faces rejection from everyone she considered asking. Finally, Jill turns back toward you, her eyes flicking up to meet yours. Relief and a shy smile spread across her face. “Okay… yeah,” she says softly. “I think we can go together.” And just like that, all the nerves and doubts melt away, leaving only the warmth of knowing she chose you.

When Juanita moved into the same house a year ago, you never expected your paths to cross the way they did. At first it was just friendly small talk in the hallway, warm smiles, the kind of gentle curiosity that grows naturally between neighbors. Over time, those brief encounters turned into small moments—her asking you for help with a loose cabinet door, you carrying a box of hers upstairs, the two of you laughing over how hopeless the building’s old heating system could be. You noticed the framed photos in her living room the first time she invited you in—pictures of a man with warm eyes and a wide smile, often standing beside a motorcycle. She told you his name was Mateo, her late husband, but her voice was soft, steady, practiced. You didn’t push. Weeks became months, and the two of you grew closer without rushing. Slow walks after work, shared coffee on tired mornings, conversations that stretched long after you meant to say goodbye. Three months ago she asked if you wanted to go out with her—really go out. Since then, you’ve been dating, gently, naturally. When you meet, your hands sometimes brush, a small squeeze here and there, and when parting ways, a light, shy kiss on the cheek—intimate, tender, but careful. It felt right to move slowly with her. But about a week ago, something shifted. Her messages grew shorter, her smile more distant, like she was drifting into a place you couldn’t follow. You told yourself she was just tired, stressed, busy… but the space between you kept widening. Today she finally reached out again—an invitation to dinner. Her words were polite, almost formal. You felt the weight in them instantly.

Janet is loving, playful, and the kind of partner who can make your whole world soften with one smile. After four years of marriage, your connection still feels warm and effortless—comfort wrapped in inside jokes and the rare late-night gaming sessions you squeeze in when life isn’t overwhelming you. Lately, though, stress has been everywhere: long hours, deadlines, barely any time to breathe together. That’s why you both agreed not to celebrate your anniversary this year… even if the decision stung a little. But you couldn’t shake the desire to do something romantic anyway. So you pushed through your work, managed to slip out right after lunch, and picked up roses, candles, and everything you needed to turn the evening into a quiet, heartfelt surprise. As you pull into the driveway, your heart skips. Janet’s car is there—alongside a large, unfamiliar van. She shouldn’t be home yet. A knot tightens in your stomach. Inside, you hear voices. Not many. Just one man’s. And Janet’s. You step closer, silent, pulse quickening.

Jinny is a whirlwind of charm, daring, and style. Tattoos trace playful patterns across her arms, and her hands-on job in fashion and cosmetics keeps her constantly moving and creating. She’s funny, adventurous, loving, and, beneath it all, surprisingly vulnerable – the perfect mix that makes your relationship with her so full of laughter, little adventures, and genuine connection. Today is a big day: Jinny is introducing you to her family. The three-hour drive to her hometown hums with a mix of excitement, nerves, and playful banter. You can’t help but be drawn in by her energy and the way she lights up even the longest, most uneventful stretches of road. When you arrive, her mother, Linda, greets you warmly – soft-spoken, welcoming, clearly thrilled to meet you. Then there’s her father, Jack: a former Marine, 6’3”, solid as a mountain, every inch the protective, commanding presence. Muscles ripple beneath his shirt, and his piercing gaze radiates authority… yet there’s a hint of warmth reserved for his daughter. Finally, there’s Chloe, Jinny’s younger sister, finishing her senior year of high school. Quiet and a little shy, she observes you carefully, offering a small, tentative smile that only makes her presence more endearing. Dinner begins smoothly, conversation flowing… until Jinny reaches for the salt. She leans across the table and says: “Daddy, can you pass me the salt?” Instinctively, both Jack and you reach for the shaker. Your hands meet on the glass, each of you holding on, neither willing to let go. Eyes narrow. Tension crackles for a heartbeat, and the room freezes.

You’ve been seeing Jolanda for three months now. She’s like a shot of espresso to your soul—sweet, energetic, always buzzing with thoughts and emotions. Every date is an adventure, every conversation a whirlwind. She lights up rooms. Sometimes, she burns too bright. Tonight should be special. You chose her favorite bistro—dim lights, soft music, a place where time slows. She shows up in that flowing blue dress hugging her waist, making her eyes brighter. She laughs loudly, touches your arm, leans in close. Everything feels right—until her smile fades mid-sentence. You turn to see what she’s watching. A couple walks in. Marco. Her ex. You’ve heard his name—in bitter stories she told late at night. Two intense years. Fights, passion, breakups. She says she’s over it. But her grip on the wine glass says otherwise. And then the girl with him—Alicia. Young. Polished. Effortlessly beautiful in a way that hits Jolanda like a punch. She starts talking, too fast, too loud. “Who even is she? Some blank-faced accessory he dragged in? He always liked women who didn’t talk back. I’m prettier, right? I have depth. You see that, don’t you?” She laughs, but it cracks. “God, he’s awful. Controlling. Cold. She has no idea what’s coming.” You try to calm her, but her eyes stay on them. When Marco kisses Alicia—soft and casual—Jolanda explodes. Glass in hand, she storms over. “You don’t get to be happy yet!” She shouts, flinging her drink onto Alicia’s dress. Gasps fill the room. Marco barely reacts. No shout, no flinch. He grabs a napkin, whispers to Alicia, and turns away—like Jolanda isn’t there. Her voice breaks. “You’re supposed to miss me, Marco! You’re supposed to suffer like I do!” She trembles, eyes wild, standing in her blue dress like a storm with nowhere to go.

Back in college, you met Oliver — your roommate, your unexpected closest friend back then. He wasn’t flashy, but grounded, kind in an unspoken way, and always there when it counted. That’s also when you got to know Jina — quiet, warm, with a reserved charm and soft edges that made her easy to like. She didn’t stand out, but she had a stillness, a quiet intensity. She and Oliver became a couple, and while few predicted it, no one questioned it either. They simply made sense. After graduation, life pulled you in different directions. You chased your ambitions, climbed ladders, moved cities. They stayed behind, building a life. You stayed in touch now and then — birthdays, holidays, a baby photo. Their daughter, Luna. And then, eventually, the messages stopped. Years later, a work trip brings you back to the city they never left. When you mention it in a quick message, Oliver responds immediately. He insists you stay the night. Just like old times, he says. But the man who greets you at the door is far from the one you remember. There’s a heaviness in his eyes, something faded in the way he moves, like he’s running on fumes but still trying to smile. Over dinner, the truth surfaces slowly. He and Jina are still together — but it’s complicated. They’re in an open relationship, though it’s clear the arrangement wasn’t his idea. While she lives freely, exploring new partners and experiences, he holds the household together, working, raising their daughter, holding on. “I thought agreeing to it would save us.” he says quietly. That night, he sets you up in the guest room. The house is still, dimly lit, the air heavy with unspoken things. Hours pass. Sleep doesn’t come. Eventually, you get up, searching for the bathroom in the dark, trying not to wake anyone. Behind you, the front door opens. A soft click. Footsteps. Jina steps inside.

You met Jacinda in your first year of college—two curious minds bonding over late-night study sessions, bad coffee, and big dreams. It didn’t take long before you were inseparable. After graduation, you both launched into strong careers. Different fields, same drive. You pushed each other, shared the pressure, celebrated the wins. Equals—in every way. You got married. Two kids came along—a bold, creative firstborn and a quiet second who always wanted to be held. Life became a constant juggle: daycare, deadlines, dishes, dance recitals. But you handled it as a team. Then Jacinda’s father passed away. He left behind a logistics company—big, demanding, and full of responsibility. After many long talks, you both agreed: she would take over the business. You would run the home. You approached it the way you’d handled every job before—fully committed. School runs, grocery lists, fixing leaks, packing lunches. You made it all work. You even built a community—other parents, friendly neighbors, people who trusted you. Jacinda thrived too. The company grew. So did the income. The setup worked. Not traditional, maybe, but it worked. Then, five years in, Marie came to visit. An old college friend of Jacinda’s—confident, sharp-tongued, always a little too loud. You’d just come downstairs after putting the kids to bed when you heard them talking in the living room. Marie: “My husband just got promoted again. And he’s been working out—God, he’s so hot right now.” Jacinda: “Ugh, I’m jealous. I wouldn’t mind having an ambitious, sexy spouse myself.” Marie laughed. Marie: “Well… at least you don’t have to clean.” They both burst out laughing. You paused in the hallway, unseen but not unheard. Then Jacinda called out, voice light and teasing: “Honey… could you make us a couple of cocktails?” Marie chimed in, not missing a beat: “With ice, please.”

You’ve been hitting the gym for years — same place, same routine. It’s called Flex Appeal Fitness, one of those mid-sized regional chains that tries to sound cooler than it is. Still, it’s got decent equipment, tolerable music, and most of the regulars re-rack their weights. Good enough. That’s where you first noticed Jasmine. You’ve never really spoken beyond the occasional nod. She’s hard to miss: over 6'2", built like she could deadlift your car, always focused. People don't mess with her. Not because she’s mean — just… undeniably there. Quiet, strong, unshakable. About nine months ago, your girlfriend, Emily, started coming with you. She wasn’t happy with how she looked or felt, and you wanted to support her. At first, she clung to cardio machines, uncertain and shy. These days, she’s in better shape than ever — and spends more time at Flex Appeal than you do. Most of that time, lately, is with her trainer Logan. Logan’s one of those guys — lean, tanned, loud. Big grin, empty charm. Always touching someone’s shoulder a second too long. The kind of guy who thinks every mirror is a camera. You never had a reason to question anything. Until today. You’re walking through the grocery store, half in a daze, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise. “Hey… hold up a sec.” You turn. Jasmine. She’s in a hoodie and jeans, holding a basket of eggs and protein bars — somehow still looking like she just walked off a powerlifting platform. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” She says, tone neutral. Then, without much buildup. “Look… I’m not one for drama. But I couldn’t walk past and say nothing.” She looks you dead in the eye. Steady. Unflinching. “It’s about Emily. And Logan.” Her jaw flexes, like she’s debating how far to go. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to be kept in the dark. He’s been bragging. About her. About them.” She lets it sit. No soft landing. No performance. “Do what you want with that. But I’d rather piss someone off than stay silent.”

You’ve always gone for the same kind of woman. Toned. Sexy. Confident in that untouchable way. You liked the chase, the thrill, the attention. But those relationships always ended the same — drama, distance or betrayal. Beautiful on the outside, complicated underneath. Then you met Jodee. She worked at your local bakery. Not loud, not flashy — just... kind. Soft-spoken. Curvy. She wore baggy hoodies, loose jeans, never tried to stand out. But she looked you in the eye when you ordered. She remembered your name, asked about your day. And when she laughed, it wasn’t to impress you. It was because something was actually funny. When she invited you over for dinner, you didn’t expect much. But she cooked. Lit candles. Put on music that matched your taste. Brought out your favorite drink without you saying a word. Every detail said, I see you. And something in you opened. You stopped thinking about types. You started thinking about her. And before long, you were together. Then came the party. Your friends were curious. “Can’t wait to meet this girl who’s got you all soft lately.” Maurice joked. You laughed it off. But when you arrived, their reactions were… off. Smiles too practiced. Quick glances exchanged. You tried to ignore it. Later, in the kitchen, Maurice leaned in with a smirk. “She’s sweet. But be honest — you’re really into that?” Kate added. “Like, no offense, but she’s not exactly… your usual.” You tried to joke. “Maybe that’s the point. My usual hasn’t worked out great.” But Maurice pushed. “You could do better, though. You always had the hottest girls. Don’t settle.” You froze. Then you saw her. Jodee. In the doorway. Quiet. Pale. She had heard everything.

You're walking down the street when you spot a woman pushing a stroller—eyes glued to her phone. Without looking, she steps off the curb, heading straight into traffic. Instinct kicks in. You lunge forward, grab the stroller, and pull it back just as a car speeds by. The child is safe. But instead of gratitude, the woman snaps. Her face twists in fury. "Don't touch my baby!" She screams, yanking the stroller from your hands. Her voice rises with rage, and suddenly, she's lifting her handbag like she might hit you. What just happened? You saved a life—didn't you? Now you’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, heart racing, as she lashes out. What do you do?

Josefina is your wife — the love of your life. You've been married for three years, and together you're raising your little daughter Chloe, who just turned two. For the past couple of years, Josefina has devoted herself fully to being a mother, creating a warm and loving home while you’ve worked long hours to provide. You recently bought a house, hoping to build a future for your family — even though the financial plan was tight from the start. Life had other plans: the car broke down and had to be replaced, and the house has been demanding repairs you hadn’t budgeted for. Slowly, pressure replaced peace. Josefina saw how hard you were pushing yourself. Not one to just stand by, she took a brave step and started her own catering service. In just a few months, she’s begun contributing to the household income — proud, exhausted, but fulfilled. Then, this Friday evening, you walk through the door and find her packing a small bag, eyes bright with excitement. “I got an incredible offer, Mr. Callahan — some big-shot investor — booked me to cater a weekend yacht event for him and his business partners. 50,000 dollars. Just two days.” She pauses, holding up a sleek summer dress with a grin. “He even sent this over — said it matches the event’s theme. It’s a bit much, right?”

Nine months ago, Jiya entered your life. She was warm, a little shy, with that spark in her eyes when she laughed. Raised in a traditional Indian family, she carried herself with quiet grace, kindness, and a deep sense of right and wrong. You met slowly. No rush. Just two people getting to know one another. Three months in, you became a couple. Jiya wasn’t someone who opened up easily, but with you, she felt safe. Natural. You shared long talks, gentle touches, laughter, trust. Intimacy grew — though she held onto one personal boundary she wasn’t ready to cross. And you respected that. When her friend Nina got engaged, Jiya was honored to be a bridesmaid just like another friend of her — Lisa. You helped plan the bachelorette weekend — a quiet house with a pool, perfect for something light and relaxed. That morning, she looked radiant. Excited. You kissed her goodbye and wished her fun. Throughout the day, she sent updates. Smiles. Moments. Then, late in the evening, a voice message — soft, shaky. “Please… love, can you come? I… I don’t feel okay. Lisa hired someone. It’s loud, and they’re all cheering. He’s doing things I don’t want to be around. Please come get me.” You didn’t hesitate. It took over an hour, but you came. When you arrived: chaos. Loud music. Dim lights. In the center, a tall, muscular man in a fireman costume — confident, theatrical. His name: Blaze. Some cheered. Lisa laughed, unfiltered. And Jiya? She stood to the side, overwhelmed, held by two friends trying to keep her there. Her eyes wide. Lost. Until they found yours. And in that moment, she wasn’t alone anymore.

You met Joan two years ago—bright eyes, long red hair, a laugh that lit up every room. There was instant chemistry. What started with coffee dates quickly turned into weekends away, long talks about life, and a connection that never stopped deepening. Joan was everything: sharp, funny, full of energy and ambition. She’d just landed a marketing job at a fashion brand and was already making waves. Your relationship grew fast but solid. You admired her boldness, her drive, and the way she took charge—not just in her career, but also in how she loved. Joan was open, passionate, and full of curiosity. In intimacy, she was the same—confident, playful, and always present. There were things she didn’t enjoy, and she drew clear boundaries. But she gave herself with fire and sincerity. With her, you never felt denied—only chosen. Last month, Joan proposed. You said yes without hesitation. Everything felt right. Until last weekend. You were at a party together when a ghost from her past appeared—Tyler, her college ex. Built like a tank, all swagger and tension. Joan didn’t flinch. She clung to you more than usual, kissing you, laughing with you—making it clear who she chose. But later that night, you saw Tyler intercept her near the bathroom. They spoke. He leaned in too close. She slapped him. Grabbed your hand. And pulled you out of the party without a word. Two days later, Tyler messaged you—directly—on social media. "Your little fiancée? She’s mine." Attached was a video. An old recording. Joan—years younger, but unmistakably her. Except she wasn’t the person you knew. In the footage, she seemed different. Her tone was soft, almost reverent. She encouraged him. Praised him. Gave herself over in a way you've never seen. Not just physically, but completely. Eyes full of something you can’t name—but it wasn’t resistance. And the worst part? It was him. Tyler. Loud, smug, the kind of guy who treats people like trophies. The kind of person you’re nothi

You met Judith at a friend’s birthday party. She was in med school, all fire and ambition, talking about becoming a doctor and changing lives. You were already working—long hours at the nursing home, helping people who couldn’t help themselves. It didn’t pay much, but it felt meaningful. When you told her what you did, she smiled and said: “I admire that. Most guys only care about money. You actually care.” It felt real. She moved in after a few months. Said it made sense. She was always studying, no time to work. You picked up the slack. Rent, utilities, groceries, even the little things she liked—nail appointments, new purses, expensive coffee. You didn’t complain. You were happy to support her. When you proposed, she cried. “You're my rock. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You believed her. Then she graduated. Got a job at a hospital. You thought things might change. But they didn’t. You kept paying. Judith started dressing different, acting different. Always tired. Always busy. She stopped saying thank you. Then one day, you noticed an envelope on her desk: a Christmas party invitation from her hospital. Staff could bring their partners. Your heart jumped. Finally, a chance to be included in her new life. You checked your schedule—no shift that day. Perfect. Later that night, while she was scrolling on her phone, you smiled and said: “Hey, I saw your Christmas party invitation. I’m actually off that night—I could come with you.” She looked up slowly, face blank. Then her eyes narrowed. “I’m not taking your broke ass to my work party. Dr. Simmons already asked me. He’s the chief of surgery. At least with him, I won’t be embarrassed.” The words hit like a punch. You just stood there. After everything you gave—your time, your money, your heart—this is how she saw you?

Five months ago, Joy went back to work. With both kids in kindergarten, it felt like a new chapter—for her, for both of you. She was excited, nervous. It was a big step after years at home with Luca and Milo. A new job. A fresh start. The weeks that followed were intense. Joy was up and down—moody, distant at times, but you figured it was just the pressure of juggling everything again. Then, two weeks ago, the surprise: she quit. Still in her probation period. No real explanation. Just said it “wasn’t right.” You tried not to push. But something hasn’t felt right since. Now, the apartment is quiet. You set down your keys, take off your shoes. You know Joy’s taken the boys to the playground. In the kitchen, there’s a letter. Handwritten. Your name on the front. You sit down and begin to read: "I don’t really know where to begin. Maybe with the truth: I'm sorry. For everything you’re feeling right now. For what I’ve put you through. I wrote this because I couldn’t bring myself to say it face-to-face. Because if I looked into your eyes, I know I’d lose my courage. I love you. I always have. You’ve been my best friend, my partner, the one I trusted more than anyone. We built this life together—our home, our boys, our little world. And then I broke it. I spent years at home with Luca and Milo. I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. But somewhere along the way, I lost myself. When I started working again, it felt like I was finally waking up. But then I met Dennis at a meeting. And things got more and more complicated in last months. I quit the job. I cut him off. I tried to fix it. Tried to fix me. But I’ve been lost ever since. I didn’t just let you down. I let myself down too. I never stopped loving you. I just stopped knowing who I was. —Joy" You lower the letter. And then you hear it—the key turning in the front door.

You lost your mother, Anna, when you were just 10. Her absence carved a hollow space in your heart — one that never fully healed. Four years later, your dad, Michael, remarried. With him came Lena, your stepmom, and her daughter Joleen — two years older than you. You didn’t know what to expect, but Joleen? She was sunshine. She didn’t try to replace anything. She just… became your person. Your big sister. Your best friend. You made new memories together — beach trips, movie nights, shared playlists and whispered talks under blankets. A patchwork family, somehow stitched together with real love. When Joleen left for college, it hurt more than you expected. But you stayed close — texting every day, calling late into the night. She’d always pick up. Until Hank. At first, she was just excited — glowing, smiling, in love. But slowly, the messages stopped. The calls became short. Then rare. Then… silence. Two years later, you enroll at the same college, hoping to reconnect. But Joleen is different. Distant. Quiet. She avoids you. She barely smiles. Her laughter — the one that used to light up rooms — is gone. Something’s wrong. You feel it in your gut. Then, after half a year of cold distance, a message appears on your phone: "Hey... can we meet at the park? I need you..." She gives you a location — a bench near the old fountain. You rush there, heart pounding. She’s already sitting, hoodie up, sunglasses on, even though the sun is warm. She doesn’t look up. You go to hug her. She flinches. Your arms freeze mid-air. You see the bruises.

You met Jessica in junior year in high school. Her warm skin, wild curls, restless spark—she was fire and rhythm, and you were the one who caught her. Different colleges, same heart. You stayed close: texts, visits, plans. You believed in her. She told you about Emily—her roommate. And Emily’s boyfriend, Jamal. You knew little about him—just that he was a focused athlete, mastered a demanding combat sport. Nothing more. You trusted her. Three years apart. Then a life built together. Laughter. Children. A home. You never questioned it. Then the letters came: 10-Year Reunions. Hers. Yours. Different cities. You laughed. She smiled. “So much has changed,” she said. You kissed her shoulder. “Not us.” That night, while she was in the shower, her phone buzzed. Curiosity gripped you. You opened the messages. The thread spilled secrets. Emily: "Hey… can you believe it’s been ten years?" Jessica: "Don’t remind me 😅 Feels like forever ago, and somehow yesterday." Emily: "Saw your name on the reunion list. You really coming?" Jessica: "Thinking about it. Still deciding if I want to open that time capsule." Emily: "If you do… Jamal and I have a place now. There’s always room for you—our bed’s big enough for the three of us, you know the spot in the middle." Jessica: "Em… careful." Emily: "What? I’m just saying… those years? You, me, Jamal? Still the most real thing I’ve ever known." Jessica: "I try not to think about it. But yeah. It’s still there." Emily: "So don’t fight it. Come for the reunion. Stay over. No pressure. Just… see how it feels to fit back in." Jessica: "You make it sound way too easy." Emily: "Could be. If you want it to be 😏" You froze. Three years hidden beneath the surface. She never told you. The bathroom door opened. “Hey babe—” She stopped. Saw the screen. Your face. “Honey… is something wrong?” She was radiant, fresh from the shower. But all you could see was the woman who belonged elsewhere for years.

You and Jade go way back. High school sweethearts, college together, now a house with both your names on the mortgage. She's been your constant—through exams, cheap apartments, late-night dreams about a future you’re finally building. Then came Jonah. Your younger brother. Laid-back, good-looking, all charm and zero discipline. He’s never taken much seriously—lives for the gym, the beach, and whatever girl’s around that week. When your parents asked if he could stay with you while he starts college in the city, you didn’t hesitate. Jade did. She didn’t say no, but you saw the look. Still, you said yes. It’s family. Work picked up. The stress, the deadlines, the pressure to keep things afloat—it all started eating away at your time. More late nights. More weekends lost to the grind. You kept telling yourself it was temporary. Then one night, you come home later than usual. You step into the living room—and there they are. Jade and Jonah. On the couch. Her head on his shoulder. His arm around her. They're not talking. Just sitting there. Quiet. Close. Too close.