Grandma didn’t like my stepmother. She said she was too pretty—pretty women weren’t to be trusted.
Grandma told me privately that this woman only wanted my dad to raise her son for her.
So I stayed on guard for a long time. I kept my distance and picked at every little thing. During all that, my stepmother treated me well.
She’d take me shopping and buy me clothes—sometimes more expensive than what she bought her own son.
When her son needed a book, she’d make sure I got one too.
Even though I didn’t do extra biology practice or enter programming competitions.
Was that her way of currying favor?
Or was it a sugar-coated trap?
I called it out.
I said, “Aunt Alyssa, you don’t have to keep trying to win me over. You can’t keep this up forever, and I don’t want to get used to it only to be disappointed.”
Her smile froze. My dad started yelling.
He’d hardly ever scolded me before. Now he called me difficult, willful, and ungrateful, and said no one would want anything to do with me once I was out in the world.
I slammed the door so hard the whole house shook.
It was winter then. God, it was cold.
There was heat in the house, but I ran out without my down coat.
I was freezing.
I meant to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s, but I hadn’t even grabbed my phone and couldn’t catch a ride.
In that moment I felt so pathetic.
Truly pathetic.
People hurried past on the street—mothers and kids sharing candied hawthorns, couples huddled over skewers, someone on the phone saying “come home early, I’ll make sweet-and-sour ribs tonight.”
They all had someone waiting for them. I had nobody.
I started to cry.
I cried loudly, embarrassingly. I knew people were looking, but I couldn’t stop.
The grocery store owner came out and asked, “Hey, miss, what’s wrong? You’re not dressed for this—come warm up inside, okay?”
That was when Ethan showed up.
He told the owner, “My sister ran off mad at the family. I’m taking her home—thank you.”
He was handsome, had that good-student polish, and the owner believed him at once.
She even scolded me gently, “Oh honey, it’s not that big a deal. Go back with your brother. It’s freezing—don’t let yourself get sick.”
I got angry. What, everyone thinks I’m at fault?
Ethan was still thanking the owner when I shoved him, “Why are you pretending to be my brother?”
He stumbled, frowning. “Stop causing trouble.”
The owner saw the tension and tried to smooth things over. “Sweetie, go home and talk it out there. It’s freezing out here. Look how pale you are.”
Ethan seemed to notice then. He took off his down jacket and without asking, shoved it at me.
I didn’t refuse.
First, I was freezing. Second, my dad had bought him that damn jacket. Why shouldn’t I wear it?
I put it on and secretly hoped Ethan would catch a cold and do badly on his exams.
That thought made me stop making a scene. I buttoned up, pulled the hood over, leaving only my eyes visible.
I’m tall for a girl, but Ethan was half a head taller, so his coat hung loose on me.
I deliberately walked slowly behind him. Near the apartment gate, his jacket pocket buzzed. I pulled out his phone and he tried to reach for it—I didn’t hand it over.
In front of him, I answered a WeChat call labeled “Olivia.”
“Ethan, are you free next weekend? It’s my birthday—will you come?” a girl’s voice asked, sweet.
I made my voice even sweeter. “Sorry, I’m having my birthday that weekend, he can’t make it.”
Ethan frowned and lunged for his phone.
I dodged his hand and kept talking to the girl. “Who am I? Who do you think? Who else would have his phone?”
“Claire, cut it out!” Ethan snapped, angry. He grabbed my wrist and swiped the phone away.
The instant he took it, I hung up.
He held the phone and typed something fast, probably explaining. After a minute he looked at me like I was trash.
Then he ignored me and walked off.
The wind hit me but I wasn’t cold. I felt oddly elated.
The satisfaction of sweet revenge. My dad was right: I was difficult and willful.
So what? If it makes me happy, that’s enough.
When did I realize I liked Ethan?
It was so long ago that I couldn’t quite remember.
During winter break, we joined the Riverside Debate Team. Since we were classmates, the teacher put us on the same squad.
Ethan was good-looking and polite; as first speaker he gave the judges a great first impression.
I speak fast and love to argue—second speaker was my spot; I thrived in the free-rebuttal rounds.
Our school team usually went out in the first round. No previous team had ever made it to the provincial tournament.
But this time, our group won every round.
Ethan got the Debater’s Style award; I was Best Debater.
The teacher had a photographer take our team picture. I held my trophy grinning like an idiot.
Later I begged the teacher for a copy. In the photo I’m grinning ear to ear; Ethan’s standing beside me with the faintest smile, refined and handsome.
I wore a blouse and a short skirt; he wore a shirt and long pants. Both outfits were black and white. It was the closest we ever came to wearing matching couple outfits.
We never took a photo like that again. But that’s later.
At the celebration dinner, the teacher teased, “Claire, that sharp tongue of yours! How do you always have a comeback ready? Come on, let me raise a glass to you.”
I felt proud, and after clinking, she turned and raised her glass to Ethan. “Claire, you should learn from Ethan—no matter how sharp your points, keep your expression friendly. Judges don’t like nastiness.”
I said, “Of course. I should learn from Ethan. In every way. Absolutely everything.”
I was being sarcastic.
My dad complimented Ethan the same way at home all the time. The teacher wouldn’t catch my tone—but Ethan did.
He glanced at me, expressionless. As usual, he couldn’t be bothered to respond.
Suddenly I felt bored.
Even during the afterparty at The Echo Karaoke I wasn’t into it. The teacher had to prod me, “Claire, did you use up all your energy on stage? You’re so quiet.”
I smiled, grabbed the mic, and belted out “Devotion to the Nation.” Everyone cheered, probably because they rarely heard a girl sing it.
It was my dad’s sort of song. He socialized a lot; when I was little and no one watched me, he’d bring me along. The song needs shouting, and it felt freeing.
I was mid-verse when Ethan suddenly called my name.
I didn’t stop—mike to my mouth, annoyed. “What?”
He said, “Your dad’s been taken to the ER.”
The room was loud; he was close so the mic amplified it. Someone muted the music and the teacher said, “Oh my—Claire, go, go now.”
I patted my pockets in a panic—my phone wasn’t there. It was in my coat on the other couch.
Five missed calls lit the screen—one from my dad, one from Aunt Alyssa, three from Grandma.
I dropped the mic, grabbed my coat, and ran. I didn’t even stop to put it on.
I fumbled for the phone and called as I ran, bumping into someone.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” someone snapped. Behind me, another voice apologized on my behalf. “Sorry. She didn’t mean to.”
It was Ethan. He had chased after me. “Do you know which hospital?”
I had no idea—the calls wouldn’t go through.
I stopped, grabbed his sleeve. “Which hospital? Do you know?”
He glanced down and pulled his sleeve out of my hand. “I called a car. It’s already here.”
By the time the car pulled up at the hospital doors my legs went weak.
I was frantic—sweating despite the cold. Every step I imagined worst-case scenarios. The only time I’d been in an ER before was when I’d said goodbye to my mom.
The ER was a blur of gurneys, white coats and IV drips—everything huge and threatening.
At the operating room door I nearly collapsed, clutching the wall, gasping.
Aunt Alyssa was there and steadied me right away.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” I whispered.
She brushed the damp hair from my forehead and eased me into a chair. “Bleeding in his stomach. Too many business dinners, too much drinking. Don’t be scared. It’s going to be all right.”
I sat, head down, letting out a breath.
A cup of warm water appeared in front of me. The hand holding it was elegant.
It was Ethan.
I stared and then took it, sipping. The warm water soothed me. I cradled the plastic cup in my hands and didn’t feel like saying a word.
I was always snapping at Dad or arguing with him. I wasn’t exactly the sweet, caring daughter he deserved. Only now did I realize how terrified I was of losing him.
In that helpless, unmoored moment, the people who made me feel safe were Aunt Alyssa—the woman I’d always suspected—and Ethan, the boy I’d always picked on.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”
After Dad’s surgery he had to stay in the hospital.
My stepmother… no, Aunt Alyssa. I could call her that. She packed some clothes and went to stay at the hospital with Dad.
She took care of him tirelessly; even if she did it for money, her care was worth something.
My attitude toward Aunt Alyssa and Ethan softened. Not gushy—just normal, respectful.
With Dad and Aunt Alyssa at the hospital, it was just Ethan and me at home.
Dad sent each of us money to cover breakfast and late-night meals. I rarely ate out: my stomach was sensitive, and I worried street stalls wouldn’t be clean. Money in hand, I had no idea what to buy.
Ethan wasn’t as picky. He knew all the neighborhood spots. I shamelessly followed him to find food; he didn’t push me away.
We turned down several streets and ended up in a dark alley. He, tall and long-legged, strode right into the gloom; in the dim he almost disappeared.
I hesitated, then he stopped too, checking his phone. I bit my lip and followed.
There was a little braised-chicken restaurant in the alley, and it was unexpectedly packed. The owner set up a folding table outside and brought us two large bowls.
It was windy, but the smell was irresistible.
I added glass noodles and mushrooms, soaked them in the sauce—so good I practically inhaled it.
Neither of us spoke. In my case, I was too busy eating to get a word out.
As for Ethan not speaking…
He seemed pretty annoyed with me.
Come on, Claire. Drop the “seemed.” He was annoyed.
I told myself that.
I really have too much inner drama—I’d even made myself laugh.
Ethan glanced at me, put down his chopsticks, and went to pay.
I pricked up my ears. The vendor’s WeChat speaker announced the payment amount: enough to cover both our meals.
"Thanks," I said.
"You’re welcome."
Then silence again.
Without my dad and his mom chatting away, a late-night meal felt dull for the first time in my life.
That was the end of day one. The next day Aunt Alyssa went home for a bit.
She came by to grab some things and to give a few instructions.
We didn’t board at school. Riverside was an old, prestigious school with too few dorm rooms, so students in the first two years of high school commuted. The scarce beds were reserved for the final-year students.
Before, my dad always picked me up at night—he worried about me walking alone.
After Ethan moved in, Dad picked him up too.
But now he was weak in the hospital on bland porridge, so Aunt Alyssa told Ethan to bring me home when he left.
I didn’t want to—I’d planned to walk home with my bestie—but I saw Ethan frown.
Perfect.
If he didn’t want me around, then I absolutely was going to walk to and from school with him.
I spoke before he could object. “Thanks, big brother.”
Ethan looked at me like I’d grown a second head.
I had never called him "brother" before.
"What are you doing?" he asked after Aunt Alyssa left.
I gave him an innocent look. "I’m scared. Walking around after ten—what if some creep comes along?"
He looked me over. Then looked again.
I helpfully added, "Say what you want to say."
He said, “Don’t even creeps have standards?”
I processed that and immediately snapped, "Get outta here!"
He obligingly walked off.
I watched him walk away, his wind-flapped jacket looking like a little sail.
It’s a little embarrassing to admit.
In that moment I realized he was a joking, breathing, seventeen-year-old boy—not the silent, flawless "stepmother’s son" image I’d had.
From then on, I started seeing him like any other peer.
The provincial debate tournament was only a few days away, in the next city over.
School took it seriously—first time advancing, they wanted to polish us. So we had a training camp.
It was already winter break; we trained by day and went home to finish homework at night.
The debate team members were hilarious; I’d sit with my thermos and listen to them trash-talk.
Our third speaker, Liam Foster, was a party guy—into everything, always organizing stuff. After practice he’d swipe his parents’ car and take us for drives.
Our fourth speaker, Ryan Mitchell, looked like a carefree sports rep but was actually sharp and merciless with words.
I kept telling him we should swap speaking positions. He’d give me a strange look, then glance at Ethan and just chuckle without answering.
We spent about a week at camp and I followed them around.
One night after practice, Liam cleared his throat and said, "Claire, you can head back. Tonight we guys have plans—you’re not coming."
I got suspicious. "What shady thing are you up to?"
Ryan gave me a humorless smile. “What are you talking about? Nothing shady. It’s just that some places are fine for boys but not so convenient for girls. We’re leaving you out for your own safety.”
With that description, I imagined some sleazy place.
Liam? Fine. Ryan? Sure.
But if Ethan was coming, they had to bring me too.
Half an hour later we were sitting by a fishing pond out past town.
…I never expected "protecting my safety" would mean a fish farm.
Ryan said, "What’s wrong? You told us you can’t swim."
I can’t swim and I’m terrible at fishing.
Within thirty minutes of trying, I’d talked to Liam twenty times.
Liam was fed up. "Hey beautiful, stop staring right—turn left sometimes and talk to the handsome guy over there, okay?"
He was loud; both Ethan and Ryan heard.
Ethan stayed calm as ever. Ryan kept smirking, looking at me in a way that meant something.
Finally he said, "Alright, stop fishing. Let’s play cards."
Liam and I paired up; Ryan and Ethan were the opponents.
I can’t count cards. I kept playing wrong and getting demolished.
Ethan had an annoyingly perfect memory—opposite of me, like a human calculator.
Liam complained that he couldn’t team up with me anymore. We’d lost everything.
I smacked him. “That wasn’t your attitude when you were begging me to be your teammate!”
Liam sprinted away, hands on his hips, and said to the other two, "Let’s roll dice—loser teams with Claire."
Ethan stood, sat down next to me, and said, "I’ll go with you."
I was surprised.
He glanced at me, shuffling the cards unhurriedly. “Maybe some of my good luck will rub off on you.”
Instead, my bad luck broke his winning streak.
After losing three hands in a row, he said nothing, but I felt embarrassed.
"How about we eat first?" I suggested.
He kept shuffling with steady hands. "No, one more round. I’ll help you win."
We crashed out of the provincial tournament. Well, perhaps “crashed out” was a little dramatic.
Liam got Best Debater, I won the Debating Style award.
Off-stage, a teacher went on and on at me, "Claire, why didn’t you roast that third speaker? What did he even say? Don’t be reasonable—your style is to create chaos!"
I gave the teacher an innocent look. “But didn’t you tell me to learn from Ethan?”
Ethan just smiled and left.
We placed second-to-last overall. The teacher was furious; the rest of us took it in stride.
As for me, it helped that Dad had called to say he would be discharged in two days.
No more street food for me. My happiness returned.
We got off the high-speed train and went our separate ways.
I lugged my suitcase behind Ethan. We chatted a bit, then near my apartment complex his expression shifted.
I looked ahead—aside from a drunk blocking the path, nothing else seemed wrong.
Then the drunk staggered toward us.
I jumped.
Ethan stepped in front of me.
His voice was cold. "How did you find this place?"
Huh?
They knew each other? The drunk lifted his eyelids and snickered. When he smiled, I could see a faint resemblance to Ethan.
"Is this where you and your mom live? Can’t I come here?" he slurred.
Ethan’s voice cut colder. "I asked how you found this address."
The man leaned around him to look at me. “This your classmate? You’ve both got suitcases. Where have you two been?”
He kept coming, reeking of alcohol. I took a step back.
He laughed and reached for me. "Look at you, Ethan—getting a girlfriend…"
Before he could finish, Ethan shoved him away.
"I told you not to come here," Ethan warned.
The man stumbled back. Ethan grabbed his collar and repeated, "How many times do I have to tell you—stay away?"
I stood frozen.
The man glanced at me and muttered something I couldn’t catch. Ethan moved to slam him against a lamppost.
If he went through with it, someone could get seriously hurt. A security guard who’d been hovering nearby hurried over, pulling a baton from his belt.
"What are you two doing?"
Ethan didn’t answer.
I blurted, “It’s all right, sir. They know each other. They know each other.”
I assumed the man was Ethan’s dad.
Ethan turned to look at me. Something in his gaze seemed shattered, but I couldn’t make it out in the lamplight.
The instant Ethan turned, the man lunged away from the lamppost, snatched up a glass liquor bottle, and swung it at him.
I barely had time to react—I shoved Ethan aside.
He stumbled, and the bottle smashed hard into my shoulder.
Ow.
It really hurt.
Dad, Dad, what if he broke one of my bones?
The guard immediately restrained him. Another guard came out of the gatehouse, about to call the police.
Ethan asked, urgent, "Are you okay?"
I paused, then said calmly, "I’m fine."
Which was a lie.
Ethan watched me a moment, like he was weighing whether I was telling the truth.
The lamplight outlined his profile—deep-set eyes, long lashes, straight nose, pressed lips—like a classical brush painting where every stroke is perfect.
I stared, nearly forgetting the sharp pain in my shoulder.
He frowned, pulled out his phone, opened the dialer, and pressed numbers.
1, 1, 0.
I instinctively stopped his hand. Our fingers touched, and I snatched mine away. I rubbed my index finger against my thumb, but I could still feel his touch.
He paused and looked at me.
I cleared my throat, trying to form words.
Although I’d always sparred with Ethan, I had to admit he had a strong sense of right and wrong.
I knew that if someone was truly hurt, he’d call the police. But would he really hand his father over to them?
He seemed tough—could he really not feel tired or disappointed?
I looked at him and whispered, "I really am okay. Also, if we call the police, they’ll probably need a guardian to be present."
I guessed he didn’t want Aunt Alyssa to know. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so furious asking, "How did you find this place?"
He was quiet a long time. The streetlight lengthened his shadow.
Finally he said, "I’m sorry."
I tilted my head up and whispered, "It’s okay."
The guard held Ethan’s dad and threatened to call the police. The man wilted. “I came to see my son. We were just fooling around.”
He turned to Ethan. "Right, son?"
Ethan’s expression didn’t change. "Next time and I’m calling the police."
The man rubbed his hands awkwardly. “There won’t be a next time. There won’t.”
Ethan ignored him and took my suitcase. Pulling one case in each hand, he walked into the complex.
I stood there for a moment, then followed with both hands empty. Pathetically enough, I caught myself thinking: so getting hit with a bottle comes with perks?
But things only got better after that.
Dad came home from the hospital, but the doctor told him to rest and avoid overexertion. So I kept walking to and from school with Ethan.
It wasn’t like the time he was forced to accept me as his shadow. After that day, every time he left the house he would wait for me.
We had left the complex when he motioned for me to hand over my backpack.
He carried it.
When I was in elementary school my mom used to carry my backpack. After she was gone, my grandma took over.
Later, it was just me.
I hesitated, then handed the bag to him. He threw it casually over his shoulder.
There he was, one bag on each shoulder — a ridiculous sight — and I couldn’t muster a laugh.
Later my dad, exasperated, asked, "You’re so young — do you even know what ‘liking’ someone means?"
I wanted to say I did.
Like that moment: the light turned green, cars and people moved forward, and I stood frozen.
He walked on, the blue-and-white uniform billowing like a little sail, a pink backpack slung over his left shoulder.
Years later, I would look back and see it clearly: a girl gazing across the traffic at a boy, without anyone noticing. That was where my feelings began.
At the time, I didn’t know what that stop and that stare meant.
After that, things between Ethan and me smoothed out. My dad was pleased, Aunt Alyssa was pleased, but maybe women sense things — besides her happiness, there was a thread of worry.
I pretended not to notice and deliberately cooled toward Ethan again.
Grandma invited me for Saturday dinner and added, almost as an afterthought, to bring Ethan too.
I moved the phone away from my ear and asked Ethan, “Grandma invited you to dinner. Will you come?”
"Of course," he said. "It’s the first time she’s asked me. I have to go."
Alyssa started to say something, then stopped.
When I went to fetch a cup downstairs I overheard her ask my dad, "Did Mom really invite those two? Should we check again?"
Dad was watching the morning news. “What’s there to check? You think Claire would lie to us?”
I Stole My Stepsister's Love by Accident
Alyssa's voice softened. "It's not that. It's just that Mom never invited Ethan before. I thought it was odd."
Dad sipped his tea and laughed. "She's doing it for Claire's sake."
Alyssa fell silent.
I stood on the stairs, the cup forgotten, and went back up.
Ethan was coming out of his room. He gave me a puzzled look.
I snapped, coldly, "What are you looking at?"
He grumbled, "You're in a foul mood this early?"
I hissed, "Seeing you makes me angry!"
He jumped, and a tuft of hair on his head stuck up like it had been shocked.
I ignored him and went back to my room.
…Only to find there was no water in my room.
Fine. Let me die of thirst.
Grandma wasn't just being nice to Ethan for my sake.
She knew Alyssa had been working hard taking care of my dad, but couldn't bring herself to be openly affectionate with her. So she used inviting Ethan to dinner to show her feelings.
Grandma’s cooking was amazing, but her health had declined in recent years; her hands trembled sometimes.
I bit into a pig trotter and immediately jumped up for water.
Grandma rubbed her apron, worried. "Did I put too much salt in this? Oh, getting old — I can't even cook like I used to."
I hurried to reassure her. “It’s not salty. I didn’t have any water before I came over, that’s all.”
Ethan picked up the two remaining trotters and put them in his own bowl. “Not salty at all. They’re delicious.”
Grandma beamed.
I stole a glance at him.
Ethan wasn't just a good grandson — he was a good brother. The trotters were actually pretty salty, but since he took them I didn't have to suffer through them.
When we came downstairs, I turned and saw Grandma in the balcony window, watching us.
In the tall building, framed by the huge window, she looked small.
I waved hard, hopping and skipping, and she smiled until her eyes narrowed.
"Hurry along! Be careful on the way," she called.
We turned a corner and the balcony disappeared.
I didn’t know whether she’d gone back into the room or was still at the window, looking out after us even though we were gone.
A pang of melancholy hit me. Time was flying, and aging and loneliness felt inevitable.
I kept glancing back. Ethan stopped and waited for me.
Distracted, I bumped into him as we walked.
"Sorry, sorry!" I blurted.
He suddenly reached up and ruffled my hair.
It wasn’t just my hair he’d tousled. Something inside me, something I couldn’t put a name to, felt tangled too.
Clutching the hanging strap of my backpack, I found my voice gone.
Not long after, it was Ethan's birthday. My dad bought him a mountain bike.
I came to the shop with them. When my dad asked if I wanted one for my birthday, I said, "Do you not know how lazy your daughter is?"
Then Ethan asked the clerk, "Can you put a seat on the back?"
I stared.
Dad looked at Ethan, then at me.
My fingers curled without me thinking.
There was nothing between us, but suddenly I felt guilty for no reason.
Under my nervous gaze, Dad's face lit up. "Good idea. Then I won't have to drive you two around anymore."
My fingers relaxed. I pretended not to care. "Yeah, you should just stay home and eat porridge to build up your stomach."
After we paid, we walked toward the parking lot.
I pretended to joke, "Aren't you afraid Ethan and I will fall in love?"
Dad laughed so loudly that he set off the parking lot’s sound-activated lights. “You’re brother and sister,” he said. “Right, Ethan?”
Ethan: "Mm."
In the dim light I looked up at him but couldn't read his expression.
We are siblings, Ethan.
But are we only ever going to be siblings?
Ethan started taking me to and from school by bike.
There was no TV-drama scene of a girl holding a boy around the waist, her white skirt fluttering in the wind. First, I couldn’t possibly hug Ethan like that. Second, our school uniform had pants.
And to avoid suspicion, I would hop off the bike a short distance from school and walk the rest alone.
The first time I did it, Ethan asked, "Aren't you tired?"
"Pfft. No," I lied.
He shook his head and rode on.
I watched his uniform flap in the wind and I couldn't move.
Of course he could act perfectly at ease. He had nothing to hide. But I did. What did he know about that?
During the autumn sports meet, I signed up for the 3,000 meters.
Not by choice. There weren’t many girls in our class, and the sports rep insisted we each enter an event. I’d gone to hand in homework. By the time I got back, the only slot left was the 3,000 meters.
I asked the sports rep, “Are you trying to kill me on the track?”
He looked ready to cry, this big, burly guy standing so apologetically in front of me. “Claire, I’m really sorry. How about I fetch your hot water for you all next semester?”
How could I stay mad?
Running 3,000 meters, I fully expected to finish last.
But once I started, I didn't want to finish last. There were people in the stands calling my name. And the boy I liked — the one standing in the same area — was doing high jump nearby.
So I pushed a little, passed three people.
The sports rep and the girls went wild, chanting my name with more affection than they’d show their own mothers.
I wanted them to stop yelling. I had no more energy.
By what felt like the seventh or eighth lap, my vision was going blurry. Barely able to breathe, I asked the person counting at the finish line, “What lap am I on?”
He looked at me pityingly. "Five."
Please.
My steps slowed. Someone ran beside me on the inner track. "Claire — you okay?"
I looked. It was Ryan.
"I'm not dying yet," I lied.
He laughed. "Take your time. I'll walk with you."
He made me laugh, and my pace picked up.
At the finish I collapsed to the ground, chest burning. No one could pull me up.
Ryan tried to get me onto his back, but I slapped his hands away.
He watched me for a moment, eyes deep, then walked off. Two minutes later he returned, dragging Ethan with him.
Ethan crouched beside me, looking surprised, as if he’d only just learned I was running the 3,000. “Are you all right? Want me to take you to the nurse?”
Ryan grinned. "Yeah — have Ethan carry you to the nurse."
I kicked him.
Ethan heard and glanced at Ryan, then offered me his hand. "Shall we go?"
Ryan gave me a half-smile that said he could devour me.
Luckily, the sports rep charged down from the stands. Ignoring the looks passing between Ryan and Ethan, and my protests, he hauled me up. “I’ve got a sports drink ready for you. Have some when we get back!”
He practically dragged me off, tucked under one arm. Fine by me. I could escape both Ryan’s insinuations and the hand Ethan still held out toward me.
Not long after, the Student Council election approached.
The teachers chose two candidates for student council president: one from the humanities track and one from the sciences. Me and Ethan.
My way of liking someone was probably different from other girls'. Whether or not we ended up together, I wanted to be dazzling in his memory. Even if I had to steal his glory or his achievements, I wanted him to remember me.
So I was a bundle of nerves waiting for the committee votes.
I wanted to win. It felt almost unhealthy.
The seven council department heads voted. Four votes for me, three for Ethan.
I felt proud, swinging my legs on the bicycle seat. I teased Ethan, "Oh no, I'm sorry — one more vote than you."
He smiled softly. "That vote was mine."
I was so shocked I grabbed his shirt. "What did you say?"
He braked, turned, and smiled. "You wanted the position so much, didn't you?"
I did. But he was part of the reason I wanted it so badly.
It was Friday; the sun was setting, painting his profile in pale pink. Cars screamed by. The smells of fried chicken and ice cream drifted in the air.
I didn't know what to say. My face felt hot under the sun.
"Thank you," I said.
"No problem," he replied and kept riding, his uniform a little sail in the wind.
In the sunlight his hair looked fuzzy and soft.
It looked touchable.
I reached out and lightly touched his hair, then pulled my hand back fast.
Like a thief I glanced around — right into the eyes of a little kid holding an ice cream cone. She stared at me with big bright eyes.
My face burned hotter.
Once we entered senior year, time sped up. Days blurred together and felt monotonous.
We buried our heads in our work. Practice books piled up like mountains; I could use up a pen refill in three days.
Sometimes I’d look out at the sunset and think of the feelings I’d hidden in that evening light. It seemed so long ago.
We were in our final year, boarding at school now, pushing ourselves through every minute of every day.
I saw less of Ethan. He was on the first floor and I was on the fourth. Unless we were going home, we barely even crossed paths.
And yet, in the middle of that crushing schedule, memories slipped in through every crack, making me pick at them, twisting me awake at night.
He once brought me a box of ibuprofen when I was in so much pain I could barely stand it. He once took the umbrella from my hand in the rain and said, “I’ve got you.” He once asked what my first-choice college was going to be.
What were those things?
Proof of love?
There are always bright, sweet bits in time—like shards of candy-colored glass. You hold them and they glitter and glow, but squeeze too tight and they'll cut you.
Drowned by math problems, days of getting up at five and studying until eleven, those fantasies grew like weeds, covering every spare inch of my attention.
I had become allergic to Ethan.
During morning runs, while getting lunch, passing the basketball court, going to the office to turn in homework—I would spot him first.
Even if all I saw was the back of his head or a blurry figure. Even if all I heard was a teacher saying, “Ethan could win a national first prize this year.”
My ranking started slipping.
This couldn't go on.
I wrote myself a note: Claire, you're eighteen. In three months you'll have the college entrance exam and then you'll be free. In college you can do whatever you want, pursue whoever you want—but not now.
Neither Ethan, nor love itself, can be your stumbling block.
After I wrote it I felt relieved.
I bought a lockable notebook and a little lockbox, slipped the note into the notebook, the notebook into the box, and tucked the box up on the top shelf of my bookcase where dust collected.
I solemnly buried my untimely crush.
The results of the programming competition came out. As expected, Ethan won a national first prize.
That meant Tsinghua would lower its admission cutoff for him by forty points. With his grades, he could practically take his pick of majors.
My dad insisted on taking us out to celebrate, dragging me away from my mountain of problems.
By the time I finished packing my bag and came to the door, Ethan was already there.
He saw me and immediately smiled. "It's only been two weeks. Why do you look so haggard?"
I was actually happy to see him, but my mouth had other ideas. “Well, I can’t compete with a future Tsinghua star. I’ll just work hard and hope I scrape into a decent top-tier university.”
“If you’re barely getting into a top-tier university, the rest of our humanities students will have to settle for second-tier schools,” he teased.
He took my bag and slid into the back seat.
I dozed in the passenger seat. When I woke, the car was stopped outside a restaurant.
My favorite Sichuan place.
My dad said, "You're definitely going to Tsinghua, right?"
Ethan said, "If I can get in, of course I will."
My dad turned to me: "What about you, Claire?"
I snapped, "I'm going to the Harbin School of Buddhist Studies."
Ethan smiled, dimples showing.
Aunt Alyssa said, "Don't pry. Kids know their own minds, right Claire?"
I didn't want to embarrass her, so I played along. "Yeah, yeah, Aunt Alyssa, you're right."
My dad went quiet and kept urging me to eat and drink more. "You've lost weight," he kept saying.
I was skeptical. "Really?"
I’d clearly gained weight. More than five jin, about five and a half pounds.
Stress weight—such a killer.
Ethan said, "A little weight's good. Cheerful. Like those New Year paintings of kids holding carp."
I tightened my grip on my chopsticks. “Oh, you’re so skinny. You look like one of those fierce door gods. Stand by the entrance and you’ll scare the evil spirits away.”
He said calmly, “How could I be a door god? I hold a carp too. We’d be a pair.”
Aunt Alyssa's hand froze pouring my drink; the coconut milk sloshed.
Ethan went to Tsinghua and could choose any major. I went through special admission and ended up at Renmin University, in a niche program.
The upside: we were close—only seven bus stops apart.
I pulled up the map to show them. My dad said, "Oh, that's great. Ethan, watch out for Claire."
Ethan smiled. "Of course."
My dad was delighted and went back to the news.
Aunt Alyssa pulled Ethan into another room and whispered something I didn't hear.
And yet, in the first three or four months after we started university, we only saw each other once, despite being seven bus stops apart.
An accidental run-in.
Ryan Mitchell had done well—he got into Tsinghua through special admission. Not long after military training, he invited Liam and me to hang out at Tsinghua.
Our group chat chimed as we pinned down time and place—but Ethan didn't say a word.
I didn't know what was up and messaged him privately. He took a long time to reply: I'm fine, don't overthink it.
Don't overthink it.
I lost both my reason to care about him and my excuse to reach out.
Several times I opened our chat, typed something, then deleted it word by word.
Eventually, like a compulsion, I clicked his profile and scrolled his sparse social posts and the few messages we used to exchange.
I dissected those ordinary sentences like a reading-comprehension problem, searching for signs that matched my feelings.
There were none.
Everything was normal—typical stuff friends would say.
Those "proofs" I had in my memories suddenly felt flimsy, unreal.
Did he love me?
Did he not?
I felt like I was on a debate stage, arguing both sides.
Then a voice intruded: He never said he liked you. It was all your imagination.
The internal argument shut down; I sat there numb. True—he had never said it.
So why had I sunk so deep into my own fantasies and couldn't climb out?
I felt as if I were back in those sleepless nights of senior year. Then, it had been falling grades. Now it was a one-sided crush that could collapse at any moment.
I suffered sleepless nights. On the day of our planned meet, I looked in the mirror.
Dark circles under my eyes, pale skin, worn out, fragile.
I suddenly felt angry—at Ethan and at myself.
"Claire, are you sick? He ignores you and you still chase him? You lose sleep over him? Aren't you pathetic? Pathetic!"
I jabbed a finger at the girl in the mirror. “There are plenty of fish in the sea. Why am I hung up on this one jerk?”
After shouting, I felt better.
The face in the mirror was still pale, but my eyes had a new light—less defeated.
I washed up, blow-dried my hair into soft curls, and asked the friend next door who was best at makeup to help me.
She glanced at my wardrobe and said, "Claire, you don't even own a dress?"
She lent me what she called her "winning outfit."
When I looked at myself again, it was still me—same brows, same face shape—but much prettier. I looked like a girl who could get away with a cheeky swear and make it sound flirtatious.
I shivered at my own metaphor.
I said goodbye to my friend and she giggled, "Good luck."
They all knew I had a crush on someone at Tsinghua. They just didn't know we'd barely spoken in months.
When Liam had tagged him in the group chat about our plans, he had finally replied. “Ah, I won’t be on campus that day. Sorry.”
I avoided my friend's mischievous looks and forced a smile. "Okay, wish me luck."
How to make it work?
Ryan, Liam, and I had been laughing and chatting as we walked. Then we spotted Ethan outside the cafeteria, and I knew my carefully rehearsed calm was about to fall apart.
He was wearing the black puffer jacket—the same one he'd taken off for me that day after I left home angry with my dad because he worried I'd catch cold.
He looked a bit taller, hair a bit shorter, carrying a takeout box, hurrying along.
Liam: "Hey, isn't that Ethan?"
Ryan sneered. "Yeah, isn't that Ethan?"
I shot Ryan a cold look. "So? What's that got to do with me?"
Ryan murmured, "Claire, don't be stubborn."
Before I could answer, he called Ethan's name.
Ethan froze, then turned.
I saw him clearly.
He'd not only grown a little taller, he looked darker—sunned, perhaps.
He saw us, and for a moment his face went blank.
Then he hesitated, stepped toward us.
“Didn’t you say you had plans off campus today?” Liam asked.
Ethan smiled. "I had to change plans."
Ryan laughed. "Not cool—change your plans and not tell us. You avoiding someone? Who, us?"
His eyes flicked toward me, half-hidden.
Ethan also looked my way, paused, then smiled. "No, just a coincidence. Did you guys eat yet?"
Liam: "Not yet—thinking barbecue. Want to join?"
Refusing now would be awkward.
He knew that and accepted.
We stepped aside for passing bicycles as we walked. Liam said, “College is great. You can have a pretty girl on the back of your bike whenever you want. Who’d dare do that in high school?”
I stiffened and glanced at Ethan.
He caught me staring and nonchalantly looked away.
Ryan said, "Ethan would dare, right Ethan?"
He directed the question at Ethan, but his eyes were on me.
Slowly, I said, "Ryan, that's low."
Ryan smirked. "I'm talking about Ethan, not you. Why so protective?"
Liam, confused, tried to smooth things over. "What are you two doing? Come eat, stop messing around."
I ignored him and stared at Ryan. “You know perfectly well who you’re really talking about.”
Ryan smiled without a trace of warmth. Then he turned to Ethan. “Do you know what I mean?”
I snapped, "I'm talking to you—why bring him into this?"
Ryan held my gaze, his dark eyes unblinking. “Then why are you so determined to defend him?”
Liam looked between us, baffled.
Then Ethan spoke slowly, "Oh—you saw. I gave Claire a ride. There's nothing to hide. We're just siblings."
"We're siblings."
Those two words hit like a sledgehammer, making my head ring.
So that's how he thought—siblings. A natural, impassable boundary between us.
Ryan was stunned for a beat and then looked at me, "You two are siblings?"
Ethan looked at me; his profile was half-swallowed by the streetlight’s shadow, so I couldn't read his expression.
I finally found my voice and answered like a robot, "Yeah. My mom's been gone since elementary school. My dad and his mom built a new family."
The noise around us kept going, but our corner was quiet.
Liam broke the silence. “Well, this got awkward.
“Claire, don’t take it to heart. Ryan wasn’t trying to hit a sore spot. Come on, let’s eat.”
The grill sizzled. Liam flipped the meat with tongs.
I chewed the fragrant barbecue in silence, but couldn't swallow.
That night we talked for a long time—just like every group dinner during training.
Liam talked nonstop; Ryan and Ethan fed him lines. I tossed a few jabs at Liam and spent most of the time laughing.
But I knew, sharply, that every word I said and every smile I flashed was fake.
Pretending I was okay. Pretending this gathering was just like before.
But I wasn't okay. Not at all.
When it was time to split up, Liam said, "Claire and I will head out first."
Ryan: "All right, see you next time."
I looked at him and said, "See you."
He looked a little guilty, like he wanted to say something but stopped.
I didn't want to say more. I turned and looked at Ethan. "Goodbye."
This time he didn't look away. His expression was gentle.
"Goodbye, Claire," he said.
Goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye to the person I once loved.
Goodbye, my brother—Ethan.
After that day I never contacted Ethan again, and he never came looking for me.
Fine, I thought viciously. Hot guys are everywhere. Losing one doesn't make a difference.
You wanted to be siblings? Fine—be siblings.
Who’s afraid of whom?
I threw myself into club life, spending my time goofing off with a crew of guys and girls.
We ate together, everyone got trashed.
After dinner we went on to The Echo Karaoke, hauling beer in boxes.
They egged me on: Claire, you're from the north—your drinking's gotta be good.
I can hold my liquor, but not when it's a mix of hard liquor and beer.
I drank until I passed out, collapsing on the couch.
I had a long, broken dream.
One minute I was on the back of Ethan's bike.
The sunset was beautiful; the ice cream smelled sweet.
For no reason I hugged his waist.
He turned and smiled, then said, "Claire, we're siblings."
My chest hurt, and when I lifted my head I was lying on the track from the day we ran three thousand meters.
Ethan held out his hand. I slowly placed mine in it. Ryan stood in front of me and sneered, “Claire, I saw it ages ago. You two don’t stand a chance. Don’t you know that?”
I screamed at him to shut up, and suddenly it was Aunt Alyssa standing in front of me.
She said, "Claire, did your grandma call Ethan in for dinner that day? Or did you lie to get him alone?"
I screamed I wasn't lying. I said I knew we were siblings and I had been holding myself back—why were they forcing me like this?
Then I was shaken awake.
The multicolored lights in KTV were still flashing. Someone sang off-key and the bass rattled my skull.
I could just make out someone standing in front of me. Then the tears clinging to my lashes fell into my eyes, making them water even more, and I had to close them again.
My head hurt. My stomach hurt.
Someone handed me a tissue to wipe my face. When I opened my eyes, Ethan was there.
White jacket, black pants, lips pressed together, expression unreadable.
"Am I dreaming?" I said.
Zack said, “Don’t blame me—you looked like you were about to pass out. I unlocked your phone with your face; he’s the only favorite in your contacts.”
Ethan's lips curved and then flattened.
I bit back, glaring at Zack: “You probably wanted me dead.”
Zack let out a yelp. “Come on, girl. He’s pretty cute. Go for it.”
"Shut up! He's my brother!" I shouted.
“Fine, then.” Zack shrugged and patted Ethan’s shoulder. “Big brother with a different last name, go easy on our Claire. She gets cranky when she’s drunk. She’s not usually like this.”
Zack went back to singing. Only Ethan and I remained in the corner.
Silence. More silence.
It was awkward—especially with a sad love song playing.
I grabbed my bag and yanked Ethan's wrist, dragging him outside.
As soon as we hit the hallway I let go.
It felt quieter there.
Ethan looked down at me. "Aren't you gonna say something?"
"What do you want to hear?" I snapped.
He smiled. “Anything. Like why you drank so much, why you’re out at one in the morning, why… the only favorite in your contacts is me.”
When he said that last part my ears buzzed.
"Shut up!" I said.
At that hour, none of the pharmacies nearby were open.
My stomach spasmed, and I crouched on the curb, doubled over.
Ethan had been pestering me to explain, but when he saw me crouch he froze. "Stomach? Gastric pain? Too much to drink?"
"Can you shut up?" I whispered.
He did.
"Can you leave?" I added.
"I won't," he said.
After a moment he said, "I'll take you to the hospital."
I remembered the emergency room of my childhood—Red Cross signs, stretchers, crying relatives, doctors apologizing.
The pain ratcheted up. "I won't go," I said.
Ethan crouched down beside me, dabbed sweat from my forehead with a tissue, and said, “I called a car.”
For some reason that moment felt painfully familiar.
An occasional car streaked by, leaving a faint whine in the quiet street.
The streetlight hit his cheekbones and eye sockets, carving his face into shadow and light.
His clear eyes reflected only me.
"Ethan, don't be so nice to me. Don't make me misunderstand," I said.
His fingers paused, and he didn't answer right away.
A car came from the west; Ethan breathed like someone relieved and stood, waving to the curb. "Here!"
He didn't respond to my words all the way into the car.
My stomach ached. My head swam. I rolled the window down and let the cold night air slap my cheeks.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview. "You been drinking, miss?"
I didn't feel like talking.
Ethan: "Yes."
The driver eyed us. "You two lovers fighting?"
I snapped, "We're not lovers. He's my brother!"
The driver laughed. “Oh, did I get it wrong? You don’t look much like siblings.”
Neon streaks blurred past the window, stretching into ribbons of color.
I shut my eyes and sank into the dark.
Some time later, half-asleep, I heard Ethan say, "You weren't wrong."
I jerked awake and stared at him. "What did you say?"
He said slowly, "I like you."
I froze. I swung my bag and hit him, yelling, "Don't you dare play with me!"
He caught my bag and held my hand, turning it over in his. "I know it's weird to confess like this, but I think I really like you."
I was stunned.
The driver cut in. “Hey, young man, what’s that supposed to mean? Is my car not good enough for a declaration of love?”
It wasn't funny, but I laughed, then choked up.
"We haven't spoken for months. We barely interact on social media. You gave me the cold shoulder for no reason. You told me we're siblings—fine, I'll be your sister," I said, slowly prying his fingers away. "Then you get in the car and say you like me—why don't you just go to hell?"
His Adam's apple bobbed. "I wasn't sure before. I was all mixed up."
I scoffed. "So now you're suddenly sure?"
He paused. "Not sure. But given how things are tonight, any decent man should confess."
“What do you mean, tonight?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He said, "You called my name in your sleep and cried."
The driver clicked his tongue.
I could barely breathe.
Damn Zack.
Ethan looked at me—his white down jacket picked up the faint light, like a pale sail on a dark sea.
He looked patient, like he could wait forever.
"Do I have to say yes just because you said you like me?" I asked coldly. "Since you told everyone we're siblings, it's done. There are plenty of handsome guys chasing me. Who do you think you are?"
Ethan watched me for a while, then softly asked, "Then what should I do?"
I didn't care what he did.
He looked hurt, but I felt worse.
This wasn't how I pictured a confession.
It should happen when the moon had just crested the treetops and the sky was that dim evening blue.
By a lake or at the foot of a hill.
I'd be dressed pretty and made up, and I'd tell Ethan I like him.
If he said yes, we’d both be happy. If he said no, I still wouldn’t have lost.
Most importantly, I'd keep my dignity.
Even if I couldn’t have any of that, there shouldn’t have been months of heartbreaking silence first. It shouldn’t have happened in a taxi, with a driver listening in and trying not to laugh.
It sucked.
Right as I felt like I might explode, Ethan cleared his throat.
I looked up; he actually seemed a little nervous.
Then he said, "Sir, could you not laugh, please?"
The driver chuckled, "Ah, I love watching you young folks fall in love. Fine, fine, don't be mad. I'm not listening anymore, okay?"
He popped on his earphones and really started to listen to music.
Streetlights flickered; Ethan's face alternated between light and dark.
He cleared his throat again. "At first I kind of disliked you. I thought you were a princess—spoiled and bossy.
“Ow, don’t pinch me. Let me finish.
“Then you took that bottle for me and didn’t even complain about the pain afterward. I started to wonder if I’d misjudged you.”
I stared at his face, feeling a sour twist in my chest.
He didn't seem to notice my expression. "Then I thought you're kind of cute. You're smart and pretty, and I started to like you a little.
“Hey, I’m complimenting you and you’re still pinching me? Who does that? Stop moving.”
He gripped my hand tight. Our palms pressed together, and it felt like a feather tickling inside my chest.
Suddenly I was afraid to move.
"But we're siblings," he said. "I always felt I shouldn't like you."
“So when I realized I liked you, my first reaction was: no, this can’t happen.
“I hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Brother and sister. Brother and sister again.
His voice overlapped with the voice from my dream, and my heart dropped to the floor.
I pried his fingers apart and sneered, "So are you sleep-talking now?"
His hand reached out and threaded our fingers together.
The passing streetlights occasionally lit his face. The boy I used to like gripped my hand stubbornly, ears flushed red, pretending to be calm.
In a perfectly polite voice, he said, “Now I think, to hell with the sister part. I like you. I’m done denying it.”
I couldn't help laughing, and the laugh turned into tears.
Ethan wiped my eyes with his hand and said in a low voice, "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad. Seeing you upset makes me upset too."
I dodged his hand, but my tears landed on the back of it.
His hand hung in the air for a moment. At last, sounding defeated, he said, “Hit me if you want. Yell at me. Just please don’t cry.”
So I gave him a few punches. He clutched his chest theatrically. “Great, now I need the hospital too.” Then he laughed and drew me into his arms.
That night was intoxicating; time seemed to freeze for a moment.
The person I loved held me carefully, as though I were something precious.
Thump thump thump—whose heartbeat was racing like that? Whose lips brushed my hair with a soft kiss?
And whose voice whispered in my ear, "Claire, let's be together."
We were together.
When we didn't have class, he'd ride seven bus stops to come have lunch with me.
Winter in the city was beautiful—a clear blue sky without a single cloud.
I sat on the back of his bike and finally got to wrap my arms around his waist openly.
I rested my head lightly against his back; the wind brushed my cheek, and sometimes I wondered if I was dreaming.
Ethan chuckled, "Have you wanted to do this for a long time?"
I said, "Haven't you?"
He pretended to be proper. "I'm a respectable guy."
I pinched his waist hard.
His tone shifted. "But if you want to call me 'big brother,' I wouldn't mind."
I teased in a syrupy voice, "Big brother, I want a kiss."
He hissed and slammed on the brake.
The moon had just climbed the treetops; the sky was still a hazy blue.
The bike stopped at the foot of the hill.
He took my hand and led me forward. “Aren’t we still on our way somewhere?” I asked.
He didn't look back. "But big brother wants to kiss you."
15
My dad found out I had a boyfriend.
His mom found out he had a girlfriend.
They both said, “Bring your partners home over winter break. We’ll take the four of you out to dinner.”
If they knew there weren't four people but two, they'd probably throw us out.
So we agreed not to go public yet.
During winter break, we were ridiculously polite.
Dad quietly asked whether Ethan and I had fallen out.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
He just chuckled and said, "Well, that's good, that's good."
Then he added, "If he did something wrong, tell me and Alyssa. Don't bottle it up. You're siblings—give a little and it'll pass."
The moment I heard "siblings," I flashed back to Ethan's line: "Screw the sister part."
I snapped, "Are we siblings? Are we related?"
My dad, now convinced we'd had a fight, tried to soothe me, "Okay, okay, no blood relation. Not siblings. Don't be mad—you're only home a few days. Don't be mean to me."
I stared at him. "You said it. Not siblings."
He said, "Mm-hmm, not siblings. Also—big cleanup tonight. Don't forget."
I forgot on purpose.
Zoe called me to go shopping, and I took the chance to bolt.
If I'd known how badly slacking off would backfire, I wouldn't have.
My dad phoned me to come back. His voice was heavy; he didn't say much and hung up.
I texted Ethan. No reply.
I felt something was wrong and called Grandma first.
I told her to ring my dad at nine and invite us to lunch tomorrow.
Grandma laughed, "Did you mess up and make your dad mad again?"
I played dumb and giggled.
She said, "Okay—when you go back, you better apologize and soften up."
Grandma has always been my savior.
With her promise, I went home with less worry.
The house was brightly lit, spotless from the big clean-up.
Dad sat on the sofa gripping a sheet of paper, his face like thunder.
I saw clearly.
On the coffee table was an open box and beside it a broken lock.
It was the coffin for my love letters.
Now the lock had been forced.
I suddenly wasn't scared. I was furious, like flame up through my skull.
"You went through my room and read my things?"
My dad slammed the coffee table. "Watch your tone!"
I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “That box was on the very top shelf. How did you get it down? It was locked. How did you open it? And you think you had every right to read the letter I hid away, do you?”
Alyssa stood by and said, "Claire, when I dusted the shelf I bumped the box and the lock broke. There was a notebook inside and when I picked it up this letter fell out."
I turned to her mechanically. Her usually gentle smiling face had no expression.
“Claire, tell me the truth. Is everything you wrote in that letter true?”
I tried to smile, but it came out closer to a grimace. “Aunt Alyssa, I wrote it for myself. I had no reason to lie.”
My dad bellowed, "Claire, he's your brother!"
Alyssa asked, "The guy you dated in college—was that Ethan?"
I met her gaze without flinching. "Yes."
My dad slapped me—hard. It sounded loud. I turned my head from the strike.
He seemed surprised at the sound he'd made; his hand hovered before he dropped it and sank back into the sofa. He didn't speak again.
At that moment the door opened—Ethan came home.
He hadn't even had time to lift his head and was already chattering, "I went down to buy fruit and the whole family's here…Why are you crying?"
I hadn't planned to cry, but seeing him made it impossible to stop.
Ethan put the fruit down in the entryway and looked at us seriously.
He could tell the mood was wrong but acted even more composed. He bent and pulled a tissue from the coffee table and handed it to me.
"Stop crying."
That made me cry harder.
Alyssa asked, "Ethan, are you dating Claire?"
He answered plainly, "Yes."
She hadn’t expected him to be so frank. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. “Before you left for university in Beijing, I told you to look after Claire as your sister. Didn’t I?”
Ethan was quiet for a moment, then said, "You did."
She went on, “I also said you’re both grown up now. You need to keep your distance and not cross that line. Didn’t I?”
He answered, "You did."
"So why didn't you listen?" she pressed.
He hesitated, then said, "Because I like her."
My dad shouted, "You're siblings!"
Ethan smiled, "But no one asked if we wanted to be siblings."
The room froze for a few minutes. It was so quiet you could hear the clock tick.
Finally Alyssa said, "Are you blaming your mother?"
Ethan stopped smiling and said solemnly, "Not blaming. You have your life. But I don't want you to be upset about this—because I have my life too."
16
The farce that day ended with a call from Grandma.
I don't know what she said, but after Dad hung up he told us to get out of his sight.
I packed the letters back into the box with its lock gone and carried it upstairs.
It felt like carrying a coffin.
Ethan followed without a word.
Alyssa stopped him. “Ethan, sleep in the guest room tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have someone swap your room and the study.”
Our home had two floors. The master, guest room, and main study were downstairs; upstairs were two rooms—my bedroom and my study. When Ethan moved in, the study became his bedroom.
He stopped and laughed at the absurdity. "Mom, are you serious?"
Alyssa was calm. "We were careless before. It's not too late to fix it. Ethan, don't make things hard for your mother."
Ethan wanted to talk but when she finished he clenched his fingers. After a long time he said, "Okay."
I couldn't stay. I thumped up the stairs holding the box.
Footsteps paused outside my door, then left.
I stayed by my door clutching the letters, crying.
Tears fell on the paper, smudging ink in a small halo.
I had once naively thought the only thing between him and me was senior year and the college entrance exams.
He had been my reason to keep going. I’d fought my way through the entrance exams and come out the other side, only to discover they were the smallest obstacle between us.
I hugged my knees and finally sobbed.
The next morning my eyes were swollen from crying; my double eyelids looked single.
There were fried dough sticks and steamed buns on the table. One bite of the pickled-greens-and-tofu filling told me the buns were from my favorite shop. It was a street over. Dad rarely went: too far, and there was always a line.
And yet the buns were on the breakfast table at 7:30 a.m.
My dad was watching the morning news and didn't look at me.
I ate the bun in bites, tears dropping into the soy milk.
I was already feeling miserable, and now I felt exhausted.
He finished eating, grabbed his briefcase, and said before he left, "Have lunch at Grandma's today. You all go."
I looked up; he ignored me and slammed the door.
Grandma had made pork stewed with glass noodles. It smelled wonderful.
But the main event wasn't the food. She said, "Claire, walk with me downstairs after lunch—get some fresh air."
Grandma lived in an old neighborhood where everyone knew each other. We passed many familiar faces.
"Oh, isn't that Claire? Long time no see—you've grown into a real young lady."
Grandma smiled, "Right, such a big girl now."
After people passed, I busied myself making footprints in the snow. Grandma asked, "Are you dating Ethan?"
I knew she was going to ask. I answered tiredly, "Yes."
Grandma laughed, "Look at how puffy your eyes are—pathetic."
I gave up on myself. "I've been pathetic for a long time."
Grandma said, "Do you know why your dad is so angry?"
I said, "Men are a mystery. How should I know?"
Grandma jabbed a finger at my forehead. "You little ungrateful thing. Your dad's worried about you, of course."
She paused, then added, "He told me not to say this to you — thinks you're too young. But if you ask me, people need to understand how the world works. The sooner you learn, the less you'll get hurt."
What did any of that have to do with "how the world works"?
Grandma stared at me for a long moment. "Take Ethan's mom for example. You and Ethan aren't blood siblings. You're both good kids who know each other's families. So why would she object? Because she's afraid of what people will say.
"If you two really got married, what would she be? Starting a new family? Or marrying for your dad's money?"
My face heated. "Why are we talking about marriage?"
Grandma waved me quiet and went on, "Tell me — when you're dating, aren't you aiming for forever? Or is it just a fling?"
I couldn't answer for a while.
She smiled. “Exactly. It’ll come up sooner or later, so you can’t avoid it. Your dad only has one child: you. Everything he and your mother built was meant for you. Ethan is his stepson. At most, your dad might give him a few hundred thousand yuan when he gets married.
“But now it’s different. The law may not stop you two getting married, but if Ethan marries you, what happens to the family assets? Won’t what’s yours become his too? Your mother’s relatives will tear your dad apart. What about his reputation? What about Alyssa’s? Claire, this affects more than just you and Ethan. Do you understand?”
I froze. Not paying attention, I stepped into a melting snowbank; the icy water soaked into my shoes.
17
I didn’t blurt out some idiot line about “what’s money.” I knew every word Grandma said cut to the heart. It was the biggest barrier between Ethan and me.
The obstacle went beyond what Dad or Aunt Alyssa personally wanted. It came from social expectations, unwritten rules handed down from generation to generation.
“People need love and money,” Grandma said. “But more than anything, they care about their reputation.”
I stood dazed in the snow. My feet were ice-cold, but I barely noticed.
Grandma told me to think it over while she talked to Ethan a bit more.
Ethan came downstairs quickly. He paused when he passed me, rubbed my cheek, and asked, "Cold? Come back inside."
I looked up at him. He seemed calm, unaware of what was about to come.
“Ethan,” I said, “Grandma used to teach Chinese language and literature. Then she became a principal.”
He hummed. "So?"
"She's very persuasive."
He smiled. "Did she persuade you?"
For a long moment, I couldn’t answer. He smoothed my hair. No lecture, no grand reasoning. Just, “Go inside. Don’t catch a cold.”
He walked toward my grandma in his black puffer, swaying like a lone sail on a wide sea.
When Grandma finished talking with Ethan, the three of us went upstairs together. I deliberately lagged behind and clung to her arm. "Well? What did he say?"
She knew exactly what I meant but pretended not to. "What do you mean, what did he say?"
I got anxious. "How did Ethan react?"
She snorted, studying me for a moment. "If this were wartime, you'd have switched sides in a heartbeat. That boy's got backbone."
The little old woman ignored me and went up the stairs with her hands behind her back.
I stood on the steps and suddenly laughed.
After that, Dad and Aunt Alyssa stopped bringing it up. They chose to turn a blind eye.
Ethan and I returned to school early, like my dad said: "Don't be hanging around me."
Ethan threw himself into work. He was already a top student, and he was also teaming up with an upperclassman on a startup project.
When we weren't together, he was often busy until one or two in the morning.
I had a feeling it was because of me. I asked him what he and Grandma had talked about; he wouldn't say.
After I nagged enough, he finally laughed, touched my cheek, and answered without really answering: "Claire, your dad and grandma really love you."
I asked, "What about you?"
He smiled. “Of course I love you. Why else would I be working so hard to save up so I can marry you?”
My face went flush.
I could guess what he'd said to Grandma.
The surest way to silence gossip was to be successful enough that no one could question you. Dad had told me that. At the time, he meant I should study hard, stop fighting with boys, and let my grades prove what I could do.
He probably didn't expect that the person who actually followed that advice would be Ethan.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He was caught off guard; by the time he processed it I was already running.
He grabbed my hand and pressed his forehead to mine.
The hum of the computer filled the little room; otherwise it was quiet in a way that made my chest flutter.
I watched his Adam's apple move.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I’d reached up to touch his throat.
He looked at me, visibly holding himself back. “Claire, don’t you know you can’t just touch a guy’s Adam’s apple like that?”
“What happens if I do?”
He bent down and kissed me until all I could do was cling to his waist and gasp for air. Only then did he say, very deliberately, “This happens.”
The light was perfect, the spring breeze soft.
Our fingers were laced; we were so close we could hear each other's heartbeats.
I buried my face in his neck. "Ethan, I feel like I'm dreaming."
He made a small sound and said, "Then maybe we haven't kissed enough yet."
I picked up a pillow and swung it at him; he caught it and tossed it aside.
Sunlight streamed through the window and lit his features.
And in his eyes was my own face, flushed and bright.
All that lingering sense that none of this was real suddenly vanished.
The hopes I'd written on paper could really come true.
The tears I'd cried would really be wiped away by someone else.
The secret crush I had thought would come to nothing was becoming a future he was working to build with me.
The road might be rough, but he was at my side.
That was enough.
"Ethan," I said, holding him, "I've liked you since I was seventeen."
He laughed by my ear. "Funny, I have too."
(The End)
