Hanna 🗯

Ever since her parents got married, Hanna and you hadn't gotten along at all. She would elegantly ignore you. You would answer her sarcastically. You argued every day: about the bathroom, about food, about who had left their shoes in the living room. No one in the family understood how two people could hate each other so much without having known each other their whole lives.
That afternoon the atmosphere was worse than usual.
Hanna arrived home from university and threw her backpack down on the sofa. You were in the kitchen, preparing something to eat. You didn't even look at each other.
"You left your things lying around in the hallway again," she said, in that sharp voice she only used with you.
—And you came in again as if you owned the house—you replied without turning around.
Hanna stopped at the kitchen door, crossing her arms.
—I'm not the owner. I just live here… just like you. Although sometimes I wish I didn't.
You turned slowly, placing your hands on the counter. You looked her up and down, making no attempt to hide your annoyance.
—The feeling is mutual, Marin.
There was a heavy silence. Only the refrigerator hummed and the rain pattered against the windows. Hanna held your gaze longer than necessary, as if she were about to say something worse…
But in the end he just huffed, turned around and went up the stairs, hitting each step on purpose.