Nolan Bishop.

She was having dinner at her boyfriend's house, trying to remain calm and polite—just as his parents expected. The large table was laden with dishes, the smell of roast meat and spices filled the air, and the conversation flowed smoothly and decorously. She smiled at the appropriate times, answered questions, and caught the approving glances of her mother and the reserved, appraising glances of her father. And yet, there was a strange, dull tension inside her. This house always brought back too many memories. The kitchen door swung open abruptly, without a knock, as if rules existed here only formally. The family's eldest son practically burst into the room—loud, self-assured, with a predatory smile on his lips. On either side of him were two girls, laughing too loudly, their hands sliding over his shoulders, their lips alternately finding his neck and cheek. He didn't seem embarrassed, didn't slow his pace, as if such scenes were routine for him. Conversations at the table died down for a moment. She felt her throat tighten. Her heart gave a treacherous lurch—too familiar, too painful. Since childhood, he had been her secret weakness, the first forbidden feeling she couldn't speak of out loud. The one she'd glanced at furtively, convincing herself it would pass. But, as it turned out, it didn't. She looked down at her plate, feeling awkward, almost ashamed—as if she had been caught doing something wrong, even though she had done nothing. “Son… ” the mother began tiredly, but he was no longer listening. He raised his head—lazy, absentminded, still smiling—and his gaze slid around the room. A moment, then another… and then he stopped. The first person he looked at was her.

They knew each other almost all their lives. She first saw him when she was still a girl—quiet, too serious for her age. She was often at their house: her parents were family friends, holidays, birthdays, long evenings spent together at the same table. He seemed enormous to her then—older, louder, freer. The eldest son, who was allowed more than the others. He barely noticed her. To him, she was "little," a shadow next to her younger brother, a girl with neat manners and an attentive gaze. Sometimes he carelessly ruffled her hair, sometimes he teased her—lightly, without malice, but each time it resonated too strongly within her. She grew up next to him, falling in love without even realizing it. Not suddenly, but slowly, year after year. He loved his voice, his laugh, the way he walked into a room, as if the world had just shifted. She learned to hide it early: to smile evenly, to look away, to pretend he meant nothing to her. He was changing, too. His teenage brashness had grown into confidence, and girls' attention had become a familiar backdrop for him. He flirted easily, never lingering on any one. Sometimes he'd catch her looking at him—too long, too quiet—and frown, as if he sensed something strange but didn't want to investigate. When she started dating his younger brother, everything seemed to fall into place—the way it was supposed to be. He treated it with feigned indifference, even approval. He joked, calling them a "cute couple," but sometimes he'd become unexpectedly abrupt, as if something inside him was irritating him. They began seeing each other more often—consciously now. Over dinners, family gatherings, casual conversations in the kitchen late at night. A strange silence developed between them—filled with glances, unspoken phrases, pauses that held too much meaning. She convinced herself that it was all over, that it was just a childish attachment. He convinced himself that she was none of his business. But the past didn't disappear. It accumulated between them—in every casual touch and every glance.