Kianna Mckinney POV:
The chill of the rain clung to me, seeping into my bones. By the time I stumbled back to the house, exhaustion had claimed me. My muscles ached, my head throbbed, and a persistent shiver ran through my body. I barely made it to a hot shower, letting the steaming water wash away the cold and the lingering bitterness of the night. Then, without bothering to dry my hair completely, I collapsed onto my bed, sleep pulling me under like a heavy tide.
I woke hours later, the house still, quiet. It was strange, this new routine. Jordan and Gwyneth were rarely around, their increasingly public relationship keeping them out late, often overnight. The silence used to feel lonely, a gaping void. Now, it felt like a reprieve, a space to breathe. I no longer tracked their movements, no longer waited for the sound of Jordan's car in the driveway. Their world was theirs, and mine was finally becoming my own.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. An alert from the airline. Your flight to Chicago, flight AA178, is scheduled for 8 PM tonight. Please remember to check in online.
Tonight. It was finally tonight. A tremor of anticipation, mixed with a healthy dose of fear, ran through me. Freedom.
My gaze drifted to the calendar on the wall, a relic of a life I was leaving behind. A small circle was drawn around today's date, adorned with a tiny, hastily drawn heart. Jordan's birthday.
A wry, bitter smile touched my lips. My departure was, in its own way, a gift to him. The best gift, perhaps. My absence, the space I would create, would be his. He wouldn't have to pretend anymore. He wouldn't have to tolerate my presence, his "little sister," hovering on the periphery of his perfect life.
The next two days passed in a blur of packing and preparation. I sifted through my belongings, meticulously deciding what to keep, what to discard. Clothes, books, trinkets. Anything that didn't serve the new Kianna, the independent Kianna, was bagged for donation. I was shedding my old skin, preparing for a metamorphosis.
Just as I was hauling a bag of clothes downstairs, Jordan walked in, his face tired but his eyes scanning the room. He stopped abruptly, his gaze falling on the bags piled by the door.
"What's all this?" he asked, his voice sharper than usual. "Are you finally getting rid of that old junk? Good. That closet of yours was a disaster."
I paused, my heart aching with a familiar pang. He still saw me as the messy, disorganized child he constantly had to clean up after. "Just clearing out some things," I said, my voice deliberately flat, devoid of emotion. "Spring cleaning, I suppose."
He grunted, running a hand through his hair. He looked different, a little more worn, a little less carefree. He seemed to notice the change in my demeanor, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. But then he shrugged it off, his attention shifting. "Gwyneth and I are moving into our new place next week," he said, the words forced, as if he were trying to fill the awkward silence. "It's closer to the city. More convenient."
"That's nice," I replied, my voice still even. More convenient. For her. For them. Away from me. I swallowed the bitter thought. He was building his future, and I was not a part of it. The silence would be even louder then, in the large, empty house. Perhaps, I thought, he would finally find the peace he always sought, once I was truly gone.
I watched him go to the kitchen, then turn back, a suitcase in his hand. He was leaving. Again. For another one of his endless business trips, or perhaps, for another romantic getaway with Gwyneth. My heart, which I thought had hardened, gave a painful lurch. This was it. The last chance.
A desperate, irrational impulse seized me. "Jordan," I called out, my voice surprisingly steady. "Are you going to be here for your birthday?"
He stopped, his back to me, and slowly turned. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "My birthday? Why do you ask?"
Every year, since I was a little girl, I had painstakingly chosen or made him a gift. A hand-knitted scarf, a carefully curated playlist, a painted portrait. Each one a silent declaration of my devotion. I wanted to do it one last time. A final, hidden farewell.
"Just wondering," I said, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking... maybe we could celebrate? Before I leave for Chicago." The lie tasted like ash. My departure was always tied to his birthday, a cruel twist of fate.
He hesitated, his gaze shifting to the floor. "I... I'm not sure, Kianna. Gwyneth has some plans. I'll let you know." He offered a vague, noncommittal answer, a familiar evasion.
My heart sank. It was enough. The final, painful confirmation I needed. He picked up his suitcase, his silhouette framed in the doorway, and walked out without another glance. The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the empty house.
A shiver ran down my spine, cold and unwelcome. My hands trembled. A wave of familiar despair threatened to engulf me. Instinctively, my hand reached for the drawer, the one that used to hold my diary, my letters, my cherished memories. But it was empty. Bare. The suitcase, with all its contents, was gone. Thrown into the bin.
My gaze fell on a small, worn sketchbook tucked under a pile of old books. A flicker of hope. I pulled it out, my fingers trembling as I opened it. Inside, page after page, were my drawings of him. Jordan, in various stages of his life. Jordan as a boy, his arm around me. Jordan as a teenager, laughing, carefree. Jordan, stern and focused, at his desk. Each stroke of the pencil a testament to my unspoken adoration. Each drawing, a piece of my soul.
My heart clenched. These, too, had to go. They were the last vestiges of a love that had become a prison. I couldn't carry them with me. I couldn't.
I flipped to the very last page. It was blank. A sudden idea, cold and clear, bloomed in my mind. Every year, I had drawn him. This year, I would draw him, and her. A final, painful tribute. A true blessing, from a heart that was finally breaking free.
I picked up my pencil, my hand steady despite the tremor in my soul. I would draw them, together, happy. And in that act, I would finally let go. I sketched carefully, meticulously, pouring all my remaining emotions into the lines. His strong profile, her elegant features, their intertwined hands. It took hours, a silent, solitary ritual of farewell. The setting sun cast long shadows across my room as I finished, the last stroke a definitive act of closure.
Just as I placed the pencil down, a sudden, jarring sound. The front door. Jordan. He was back. And he wasn't alone. I heard a slurred laugh, a stumble, and the unmistakable sound of Gwyneth's voice, laced with annoyance.
I crept to my door, peeking out. Jordan stumbled into the hallway, Gwyneth struggling to support him. He was drunk. Very drunk. His eyes were unfocused, his movements clumsy.
"Damn it, Jordan," Gwyneth hissed, her patience clearly wearing thin. "You said you could hold your liquor."
My heart gave a painful lurch. He was always so careful, so controlled. To see him like this, so vulnerable, so utterly lost, twisted something inside me. Instinctively, I moved.
"Gwyneth, let me help you," I said, my voice soft, rushing forward. I took his arm, his weight almost pulling me down. He was heavy, a dead weight against my side.
His head lolled against my shoulder, his arm, heavy and warm, wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot through me. My breath hitched. This was too close. Too intimate. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Kianna?" he mumbled, his voice thick with alcohol. He pulled me tighter, his breath hot against my ear. My body stiffened, a wave of unease washing over me. This was not the protective big brother. This was something else. Someone else.
He spun me around, his hands gripping my shoulders, his eyes, hazy and unfocused, searching my face. "Gwyneth," he slurred, his voice surprisingly tender. "You're finally here. I missed you so much." He lowered his head, his lips, warm and wet, pressing against mine.
