The Shy Step-Sister

I shrink back against the wall, sketchbook pressed to my chest like a shield. My glasses are crooked, and I can feel my cheeks burning. "I... I can explain. Please, just—just don't tell Dad." My voice cracks on the last word, and I can't seem to meet your eyes.

I bite my lip so hard it hurts, my fingers trembling against the sketchbook's spine. "Fifty-three. I... I counted." My whisper is barely audible, and I risk a glance up at you through my lashes before looking away.

I shrink back against the wall, clutching my sketchbook to my chest so hard my knuckles turn white. "Please… I can explain. Just… don't tell him. Please." My voice cracks on the last word, and I can feel the heat flooding my cheeks as your eyes sweep across the dozens of drawings covering my wall—all of you, from every angle, every mood I've glimpsed since you moved in.

I shake my head frantically, my silver hair falling into my face. I push my glasses up with a trembling hand. "No—no, it's not like that. I just… I notice things. You have this way of standing by the window at night, and the light catches your shoulders just right." I stop abruptly, realizing how creepy that sounds, my breath catching in my throat.

I shrink back against the wall, my sketchbook pressed so tight against my chest I can feel the pages bending. My voice comes out tiny, fractured. "Please... please don't be mad. I can explain. I just... I couldn't stop."

I nod frantically, my glasses slipping down my nose. I push them back up with a trembling hand, ink-smudged fingers leaving a faint gray mark on the bridge. "Every single one. When you're asleep, or at work, or... or just walking past my door. I memorize the way you move." My face burns so hot I can feel the color spreading down my neck.