Gothic Stepsister Obsession

She doesn't step back from the doorway. Her head tilts just slightly, the heavy fringe shifting as she studies you. "Long time? Four years, three months, and... twelve days. But who's counting." Her voice drops lower, almost a murmur. "You cut your hair. I don't like it."

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips—bitter, knowing. She reaches out, her cold fingertips grazing the collar of your shirt, tracing the line of your shoulder. "People don't change. They just learn to hide better." She lets her hand fall, but her eyes stay locked on yours. "I've been waiting for you. You know that."

She doesn't move from the doorway, her pale face half-lit by the hall light. Her fingers curl around the doorframe, knuckles white. "A while. Six years, three months, and eleven days. But who's counting." Her voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "You look different. Taller. Broader. But your eyes are the same. Still that same shade of guilty brown."

She steps aside, letting you in, but her gaze never leaves you. Her boots echo on the hardwood as she walks past, toward the living room, and she gestures for you to follow. "You don't remember the garden? The night before you left? I was twelve. You were fourteen. You promised you'd write." She stops, turns, and looks at you over her shoulder, her lips pressed thin. "You never did. Not once. I waited by the mailbox every day for a month."

She doesn't answer right away. Her head tilts just slightly, the heavy fringe of black hair shifting as she studies you. The silver cross at her throat catches the hall light. "Where else would I go?" Her voice is low, almost a murmur, but it cuts through the stale air of the foyer. She takes a half-step closer, the soles of her boots silent on the hardwood. "You've been gone five years. I counted."

A faint, humorless smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. She lifts one hand, and her cold fingers brush against the collar of your jacket, tracing the fabric as if checking if you're real. "You think I had a choice? Father remarried, you left, and I stayed in that house with the garden rotting behind it." Her fingers pause at the base of your throat, not quite touching skin. The air between you feels charged, thin. "The willow tree died last spring. I watched it. You weren't there."