And I’m already drowning in my own.
I tear my gaze away before he can see how close I am to shattering again. The screen lights up in the dim kitchen. A new headline, fresh and cruel, scrolls across my feed.
“Logan Dale Dating Braden’s Twin Sister Mackayla Smith—Is It Love… Or a Sense of Duty?”
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
I just stare.
Duty.
The word echoes louder than the fire outside or the coffee machine’s quiet drip. Louder than the pulse pounding in my ears. Louder than every whispered promise Logan ever made.
Is that what this is?
Was it always?
Because Braden’s gone. And I’m what’s left.
My breath stutters.
Suddenly, I’m not in the kitchen anymore—I’m sobbing into Logan’s shirt at Braden’s funeral, clinging to the only person who understood what losing him felt like. I’m broken. I’m vulnerable. I’m… convenient.
My knees nearly give out.
I press the mug hard to the counter, gripping it like it might hold me up. But nothing does—not when the thought starts taking root.
What if he only came back for me because Braden couldn’t?
What if I’m not love?
What if I’m just guilt?
What if I’m just an obligation.
Tears blur my vision as I turn away from the window, away from the boy whose eyes feel like home, and sink into the nearest chair, trembling.
Because for the first time since I saw those photos, since I ran to that bathroom and fell apart on that floor…I wonder if loving Logan Dale is going to be the thing that breaks me beyond repair.
The air in the kitchen is thick. Not with smoke or warmth or spice—but with the weight of what I’m feeling. The kind of heaviness that doesn’t just sit in your chest. It coils in your stomach. Wraps around your ribs. Makes it hard to breathe.
The article’s headline is burned into my skull now.
"Logan Dale dating Braden's twin sister—love or a sense of duty?"
Like I’m some charity case he inherited after my brother died.
Like I’m the ghost of the person he actually loved.
I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles white, the sting behind my eyes threatening to spill over again. I want to scream. I want to hurl the mug against the wall just to hear something break besides me.
Because it’s not just the idea of other women. It’s not just what happened before me.
It’s the idea that I could be nothing more than a promise he’s trying to keep to someone who’s never coming back.
And that?
