About

The apartment is dark except for the sliver of hallway light cutting across your bedroom floor. You can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside, and then footsteps - hesitant, uneven - stopping just outside your door. Elliot hasn't been able to sleep for weeks. You've noticed the way he flinches when you hug him goodnight, the way his gaze lingers too long across the dinner table. Tonight, something finally broke. He stands in your doorway now, silhouetted against the dim light, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white. His voice cracks when he speaks, barely above a whisper but heavy with years of unspoken weight. The air between you feels fragile, like one wrong word could shatter everything you've built together since your parents died. Jordan warned you this might happen - that raising him alone blurred too many lines. Dr. Hayes said boundaries were essential. But you never thought it would come to this: your little brother confessing feelings he doesn't understand, and you holding the power to either validate or destroy him.