For three months, I lived on anger. It fueled me. It kept me strong. Every time I pictured them together, I hardened my heart even more.
Then one night, there was a knock at my door.
My sister stood there in dirty clothes, her hair tangled and unwashed. Her face was pale, hollow. She was trembling — not just from the cold, but from something deeper. Fear.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered.
I should have slammed the door.
Instead, I stepped aside.
She walked in like a ghost.
That night, everything changed.
Around midnight, I heard her cry out from the bathroom — a sound so raw it cut straight through me. I rushed in and found her collapsed on the floor, bl00d pooling beneath her.
She kept repeating, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
I didn’t think. I just acted.
