"It's past eleven already. Do you want to… grab something to eat together?" Lila asked, glancing toward the cafeteria doors standing wide open in the distance as students began drifting inside in small groups.
"Sure. I'm actually pretty hungry," Noah said, his gaze settling on the delicate line of her face and neck. The sweat that had glistened earlier had dried completely now; the cold wind lifted strands of her hair, leaving her skin looking almost translucent, pale against the late-morning chill.
"You should put your jacket back on properly now that you're not hot anymore. Don't catch a cold."
"Okay…" Lila unwound the jacket still knotted around her waist, slipped her arms through the sleeves, and pulled the zipper up to her chin.
Once the sweat dried, the cold seeped in faster, the moment when the body was most vulnerable to the chill. The boy still noticed, still cared the way he always had—asking after her comfort, worrying about the smallest things. She still had a chance.
Inside the cafeteria the crowd was light; plenty of tables stood empty. The air carried thick, warm waves of spice and savory broth, the food stations crowded with bright, glistening dishes that pulled at the appetite.
Lila's eyes drifted, as they always did, toward the most vividly colored plates. She opened her mouth to order, then caught sight of Noah selecting a portion of eggplant. After a brief hesitation she pressed her lips together and ordered the same.
When they sat down with their trays, she studied the two plain vegetable dishes on his plate—so sparse, so deliberately restrained—and without a word reached over to transfer a chicken drumstick from her own tray to his. He looked up, puzzled.
"Boys need more protein," she said evenly. "You used to take care of me like that all the time, remember?"
"I just eat light sometimes… but thank you."
Noah picked up the drumstick and took a bite. The cafeteria cooks had always been good; the meat was tender, seasoned just right, familiar in a way that tugged at older memories.
Back when they were still together, he had made a habit of looking after her without thinking. During his shifts at the cafeteria he would often be asked to bring her food; on top of whatever she ordered, he would quietly add an extra piece of meat. Sometimes, when he picked up milk tea for her, he would slip in a grilled sausage on the side.
Those small, automatic gestures had become second nature once. He still remembered her tastes exactly.
"You used to hate eggplant," he said, nodding toward the soft, purple-gray mush on her plate.
"I have to learn to eat it eventually. Learn to take care of myself. Learn to take care of other people. Eat the things I don't like. Do the things I don't know how to do. So that… the person I like might start liking me again."
Her fork and knife stilled between the rice and the vegetables. She kept her head lowered, face hidden, expression unreadable. The last few words came out so soft, so fine, they nearly dissolved into the background noise of trays and voices.
Noah pretended not to hear. It was kinder that way—for both of them.
No matter how much Lila changed, no matter how hard she tried, she could never replace Evelyn. He had finally understood the weight of everything his sister had given up for him; once that realization settled, it became almost impossible not to bend toward her expectations.
Whether he loved Evelyn or not no longer mattered. If that was what she wanted, then he would become the version of himself she needed him to be.
"Is there something on your neck?" Lila asked suddenly, her gaze catching on a small dark spot just below his collarbone. She started to reach out to brush it away; Noah jerked back so sharply the bench scraped against the tile.
He tugged his collar higher, covering the mark. "It's nothing… just a mole."
"You didn't have that before."
"I don't know when it showed up. Let's just eat. You should get some real rest after this."
…
The pill went down with a swallow of cold water, the sharp pain in her abdomen easing just enough to let her breathe. Evelyn sat in the chair, eyes closed, one hand pressed lightly against her stomach as the muscles fluttered and settled.
She had suffered from stomach problems since childhood. Only after being taken into the Miller home—after regular, balanced meals and the right medication—had the attacks gradually stopped. For more than ten years the illness had stayed quiet.
Until college.
At Loane University she had turned herself into something close to a machine: classes, part-time jobs, competitions, scholarship applications, grant deadlines. To save money she chose the cheapest options at every meal, ate whatever was fastest and most forgettable, trying to bury the guilt she carried toward the boy beneath layers of exhaustion and deprivation. The old illness had returned exactly as expected.
Before graduation Laura sent money every month without fail. Evelyn saved almost every cent and used it to cover Noah's first semester tuition.
She could no longer remember exactly when she began refusing Laura's care—when she started shouldering everything alone, as though by taking less from the Millers she could somehow lessen the debt she already owed them for what she had done to their son.
After graduation she lied. She told them she had found a job, that she could support herself now. She turned down the monthly transfers and severed that last thin financial thread.
Those years had been brutal. Early mornings, late nights, endless shifts. While her roommates wore pretty dresses and bold makeup, laughed about new bubble-tea shops and cute boys, she stayed on the edges—out of place, almost alien.
There had been boys who tried. One in particular her roommates had pushed, convinced a little romance would brighten her gray routine. They had nagged and teased until she finally agreed to meet him once. She could no longer recall his face. She had never really looked at him. She never touched the random gifts he left. Eventually she told him plainly to stop. When he kept coming back she said the one sentence that finally ended it: "Don't make me feel sick."
On the night she was accepted into the graduate program, her undergraduate advisor—Leah Hart—had offered to celebrate with her. Evelyn declined.
That same evening she bought several bottles of cheap liquor. After her roommates left for the night she drank alone in the empty dorm, one bottle after another.
It was probably the strongest pull she had felt toward seeing the boy again—before he even enrolled at Loane. The longing had kept her awake, restless, turning in the dark.
She had called home. His voice on the other end had already dropped the "sister" she once loved hearing; now it was just "sis," clipped and adult, proof he was growing beyond her reach.
Every winter and summer break when she returned, she could measure the changes: taller, broader, more handsome, more likely to draw girls' eyes. Sometimes she comforted herself with the thought that—at the very least—she had taken his first time. She had marked him. Her scent still clung to his skin; her color still stained him somewhere deep and permanent.
But that was no longer enough.
The sound of a key turning in the lock pulled her back. The door opened and there he was.
"You're home, sis."
"Yeah. Classes are in the afternoon today." She lifted her eyes to him. His bangs were damp and messy, collar askew; faint traces of dried sweat still clung to his face and neck. She remembered—his phys ed class had been that morning.
She stood, took his hand, and led him into the bathroom. "Let me wipe you down. You're covered in sweat. It's starting to feel dirty."
"I can do it myself. I'm not little anymore."
"Be good. Let me help. Take your clothes off."
She guided him to sit on the small stool. He obeyed, shrugging off his jacket and undershirt until his lean, pale torso was bare in front of her. Evelyn wet the towel, starting at the nape of his neck and working downward in slow, careful strokes across his back.
When she moved to the front, her gaze caught on the blurred black letters still visible across his collarbone—the ink smudged and faded from sweat.
A faint, mocking reminder of how fragile her claim really was.
She lifted her eyes to meet his—dark, clear, questioning.
"What's wrong, sis?"
Evelyn set the towel aside. She cupped his face in both hands, leaned in, and pressed her lips softly to his.