The House That Remembered Us
The house had not changed.
Amara knew this the moment she stepped inside, dragging her suitcase over the cracked tiles she used to jump across as a child. The walls still carried the soft beige paint her aunt loved, and the framed family photos hung exactly where they had always been—smiling faces frozen in time, pretending nothing ever went wrong in this family.
Yet something felt different.
The air was heavier.
Like the house remembered her sins.
"Amara?"
Her heart skipped before her mind could catch up.
She turned slowly.
Daniel stood a few steps away, one hand resting on the doorframe, as if he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to enter the room. He was taller now—noticeably so—with shoulders that filled out his shirt and eyes that had lost some of their boyish ease. But it was still him. Still Daniel. The boy who had shared secrets with her under mango trees. The boy who had once held her hand for a second too long and changed everything.
Her cousin.
The word tasted bitter.
"Hi," she said, managing a small smile. "You're… home early."
He let out a breath that sounded like relief. "I heard you arrived."
Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world shrank until it was just the two of them, standing on opposite sides of a line they were never supposed to cross.
Three years ago, Amara had run away from this house with a suitcase and a heart full of guilt. She told herself she needed distance, needed space, needed to forget the way Daniel's presence made her feel too seen, too understood.
She had failed at forgetting.
"You look different," Daniel said quietly, like he was afraid someone might hear.
"So do you," she replied. "You grew up."
"So did you."
His gaze lingered, and she felt it—felt the familiar warmth crawl up her spine, the same warmth she had prayed would disappear with time.
From the kitchen came the clatter of plates and her aunt's voice. "Daniel! Stop standing there and help me."
The moment shattered.
"Later," he said under his breath before turning away.
Later.
That word had always been dangerous.
Dinner was loud. Too loud.
Laughter filled the table, conversations overlapped, and everyone seemed happy to have Amara back. Everyone except her. She ate quietly, nodding when spoken to, careful not to meet Daniel's eyes for too long. When she did, it felt like a secret passed between them, unspoken and heavy.
Every accidental brush of knees under the table sent her heart racing.
Every laugh of his made her chest ache.
When dinner finally ended, she escaped to her room, closing the door behind her as if it could keep her thoughts out. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands, remembering the night three years ago when Daniel had confessed he felt the same way she did.
We shouldn't, she had told him then.
I know, he had replied.
Neither of them had listened.
A knock came at her door, soft but insistent.
Her breath caught.
"Amara," Daniel whispered. "Please."
She stood slowly, every step toward the door feeling like a step toward ruin. She rested her forehead against the wood, fighting the urge to open it.
"This is a bad idea," she said.
"I know," he answered.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I know."
Silence followed, thick with everything they couldn't say.
"But you still came," she whispered.
"Yes."
Her hand trembled as she reached for the door. When she opened it, he stood there—too close, too familiar, his eyes filled with something that looked dangerously like longing.
"I tried to move on," he said. "I really did."
"So did I."
"And?"
She swallowed. "I never stopped thinking about you."
The words fell between them like a confession and a curse.
Daniel exhaled shakily, lifting his hand but stopping just short of touching her face. "Then we're in trouble."
Because this wasn't just love.
It was forbidden.
It was wrong.
And it felt like home.
Amara stepped back, letting him inside.
The door closed quietly behind them.