I
first met him on an evening when our parents, who had been college friends,
decided to reunite over dinner. The moment I laid eyes on him, I disliked him.
He was quiet, reserved—so much so that he reminded me of my ex, a recent wound
I had already numbed with another fleeting romance.
But
Mr. A—yes, let’s call him that—was different. Somewhere between the awkward
pleasantries and the restless minutes that followed, my irritation shifted into
curiosity. He was undeniably handsome, much like his father, yet he carried
himself with an air of restraint, an unwillingness to spill into the world
around him. I, being the exact opposite, wondered how the rest of the evening
would unfold.
Our
parents left us to our own devices, and we ended up walking through the park.
What began as forced small talk gradually unravelled into an unexpected
conversation—intimate, meandering, endless. The boy I had dismissed an hour ago
suddenly wouldn’t stop speaking. He wanted to know everything about me, but I
hid the triviality of my love life. I told him I was in a stable relationship
with someone quite like him, omitting the fact that my romantic escapades were
fleeting at best.
In
return, he shared stories of his own love life, details I found myself
resenting even as I listened. He spoke of his girlfriend with an unwavering
loyalty, recounting with boyish enthusiasm the names they had chosen for their
future children. He even whispered about their intimate moments, unaware that
each word made something in me ache—perhaps because I knew their love would not
last, or perhaps because he was already spoken for.
The
evening ended, along with my silent, unacknowledged yearning. And then came the
strangest realisation—Mr. A was only eighteen, still in school, while I, at
twenty-one, was navigating the turbulence of college life. Before I could even
place my feelings, he had already ‘sister-zoned’ me.
The
second time we met was at my mother’s birthday party, and that night made me do
something I could never justify.
The
celebration stretched late into the night, and some guests stayed over. Mr. A’s
family was among them. Space was scarce, so arrangements were made. Our bed was
large enough for three, so my father, Mr. A, and I were to share it.
Even
before the night began, my mind had entertained countless possibilities, but I
knew Mr. A—so principled, so self-contained—would never dare cross a line. So,
we talked for a while before surrendering to sleep. My father, beside me, was
soon lost to his dreams, his rhythmic snores punctuating the silence.
I
was half-awake when I felt our hands touch. A fleeting accident, I told myself.
But when I made no move to withdraw, he did not either. And then, with quiet
deliberation, he interlaced his fingers with mine. The next moment, he came
closer and grasped my hand tightly.
A
whisper of hesitation broke the moment—"What are you doing?” I asked. His
voice, barely audible, wavered: “I don’t know… I don’t know.”
And
yet, we did know.
He
drew closer, his breath uneven. His arms—once restrained, once innocent—wrapped
around me, tracing every curve with a hesitancy that quickly dissolved into
hunger. In that moment, we were neither tethered by our past nor bound by our
lovers waiting elsewhere. His lips found mine, and we yielded—recklessly,
fervently.
I
murmured a weak protest, “'m your sister… we can’t—" but he saw through
the lie in my voice. He knew I wanted this. And so, we abandoned reason, lost
ourselves in the quiet sanctity of the night, navigating each other’s bodies
with desperate, unspoken longing. We made out most carefully, without making
the slightest of noise or too many movements to wake dad up. Mr. A was sculpted
strength, a body he had always kept hidden beneath full-sleeved shirts, but
that night, the fabric fell away—along with a few other things, revealing what
Mr. A cupped in his hands before suckling them like a starving infant. I
clutched his hair tightly as he went down on me, leaving a trail of saliva
along my navel that ended as one with my own wetness. This was the most
extraordinary and incestuous love I could ever imagine making. We wanted every
bit and second of it until our topless bodies clung onto one another for a
pause.
It
was only at daybreak, when the first sliver of light spilled into the room,
that we were confronted by reality. We were bare, pressed together by the
weight of something we couldn’t name. And in that golden hush, we became
strangers once more.
I
led him to the balcony, where he broke into silent sobs. Guilt wracked him; he
clung to regret, to the betrayal of his girlfriend. But I—I did not share in
his shame. I wanted him again, yet all he spoke of was how to atone.
So,
I played my role. Like the elder I was supposed to be, I soothed him, reassured
him that it had been nothing more than a lapse of judgment, a mere betrayal of
impulse. He nodded, absorbing my words, though neither of us truly believed
them. And then we returned to bed, our bodies still warm from the memory of a
night we were already trying to forget.
But
I would always remember the words he had whispered into the darkness as he held
me close— “You don’t deserve this.”
I
never understood what he meant. Perhaps I never will.
Months
passed. His family visited again, but this time, he did not come. Instead, his
mother pulled me aside, her expression strained yet knowing.
“He
told us,” she confessed, voice laced with unspoken reproach.
My
breath hitched.
“He
said it was just… kissing.”
I
understood then. He had broken, had crumbled under the weight of it all and
confessed—though not entirely. To shield us both, he had reduced our night to
something less damning. His mother, unaware of the full truth, apologised on
his behalf.
She
handed me his number and asked me to call him in front of her. I obliged. The
conversation was brief, riddled with silences heavier than words. When we hung
up, I thought it was over.
Later,
his text message arrived. A long, carefully curated explanation—he had
confessed to his girlfriend, she had forgiven him, and they were stronger than
before. And as for me? He wanted nothing to do with me ever again.
I
did not reply. His words painted me as the villain, the one who had lured him
into something forbidden. And so, we disappeared from each other’s lives.
Time
passed. One day, his mother visited again and mentioned, almost in passing,
that her son had been struggling to move on from a breakup.
Their
perfect little love story had ended, leaving their unnamed children unborn.
For
a fleeting moment, I felt vindicated. Perhaps fate had restored balance, repaid
the debt he owed me. But then, an unfamiliar sadness crept in. He had been just
a boy, after all. A boy who had loved and lost.
And
then, days ago, a notification flickered on my screen— “Mr. A has sent you a
friend request.”
I
hesitated, but eventually, I accepted. Moments later, against my better
judgment, I sent him a message.
Hope
you're doing well. All the best for your semesters.
His
reply came, curt and indifferent— Yes, thank you. All the best to you too.
And
just like that, we became nothing again.
