Sometimes, a person misses the comfort of their past.
It could be five years ago, or ten.
Every human being—no matter how unique their life is—has that one golden period they look back on.
For some, it's a trip abroad. For others, childhood memories.
And for many—undoubtedly—it's high school.
High school…
That chaotic stage when adolescence peaks.
When a person tastes all the bad things for the very first time—
The first cigarette.
The first drink.
The first fight.
And the first love.
Every one of those firsts applied to Michelle.
She had lost her father at a young age.
If it were up to her mother and older sister, Michelle would've had a rough, broken childhood. But her mom—clever, ambitious, and lucky—had found money early in life.
So no, Michelle didn't grow up in a tragic, fatherless mess.
Sometimes she missed the man she never knew.
But it would fade quickly.
Because how much can you miss someone you've never met?
Turns out, way more than you'd expect.
As she left school and made her way home, Michelle and Justin snuck into someone's backyard and lit a cigarette.
Her first one.
That cigarette was everything.
It made her feel things she hadn't felt before.
Because, for the first time in her life, she was doing something behind her family's back—and it felt amazing.
She felt free.
As if everything was under her control.
Then Justin's phone rang.
A friend was inviting him over to hang out.
Who wouldn't want to chill with the most popular guys in school?
Other girls would've given anything to be around the Justins of the world.
But Michelle didn't have to give anything.
Her natural beauty, regal posture, and unmatched confidence did the talking.
In high school, let's be honest—any guy would've slept with her if he had the chance.
⸻
Brian's high school life wasn't exactly shining either.
He didn't care about classes.
His only goal was to live it up, spend his dad's money, and make the most of these last four years before life got "serious."
He was known around school—a player on the football team—but not like the others.
He never rolled with the bully crowd.
He didn't go around pushing people, though he sometimes enjoyed mocking them just for fun.
Well, back then, if you wanted to impress the girls, you had to show you were above the rest.
That's how you got the attention of the school's most popular girls.
What a shitty place high school was.
⸻
Michelle ended up going with Justin to his friend's place.
It was her first real dive into the world of alcohol and smoking—and she went all in.
Some club song was playing in the background.
The teens, even though they couldn't dance for shit, kept moving until their legs gave out.
Some had already collapsed to the floor, stomachs turning.
Others passed out.
Michelle just sat back, watching, a little withdrawn.
She was close with Justin, but didn't know the others.
The atmosphere felt foreign, but it didn't matter.
When a girl like Michelle walks into a room, eyes lock on her—whether it's for a night of sex or the hope of something serious.
A few hours passed.
Then the door opened.
Brian Easton had arrived.
He took off his leather jacket and hung it on the coat rack.
After greeting everyone, he walked to the dining table across from the coffee table where people were already smoking and drinking.
He dropped a small plastic bag on it.
Michelle noticed something inside—it looked like tobacco or something.
She didn't quite get what was going on, but the guy had caught her eye.
Sixteen years old, light stubble, messy short black hair.
Handsome.
That's what stood across from her.
Brian rolled what was in the bag into a joint, then casually joined the group.
Everyone cheered when they saw what he was holding.
Some even screamed.
Others looked scared.
Michelle was confused.
There were already five or six packs of cigarettes on the table.
Why was this one so special?
Then it was her turn.
She took a hit.
And understood everything.
It was weed.
That infamous, forbidden thing she'd only seen in movies—
The one parents warned you about, the one schools demonized.
And she'd already smoked it.
What a fucking idiot.
Without even knowing, she'd let the smoke slip into her lungs, straight to her brain.
She was instantly light-headed, sinking into the couch, floating.
When the joint came around again, she took another hit.
The others chatted and laughed.
Michelle didn't even know what she was feeling anymore.
She was drifting.
⸻
The teens were losing their minds.
Some were horny. Some were vomiting.
Some were passed out.
Michelle was still the center of attention, even if she wasn't the only girl there.
But for her, the night was over.
She didn't even know how she was going to get home.
Her eyes were puffy and dark, screaming "I just did drugs."
She stumbled to the bathroom, sat down on the toilet lid.
Looked at herself in the mirror.
"What the fuck am I doing?" she thought.
Her libido was up—yes.
But her energy?
Zero.
She even thought, just for a moment, about touching herself right there.
She teased herself for a second.
It felt good.
But she was drained.
Completely spent.
The kids kept dancing like lunatics, lost in the music and whatever was coursing through their bloodstreams.
And why wouldn't they?
What other serious problems could a bunch of twisted teenagers even have at that age?
Most of them didn't give a shit about their families anyway.
They just saw them as cash dispensers.
Brian, though—Brian wasn't really there.
His fight with Sophie kept playing in his head.
Veronica kissing him in front of everyone? That was driving him insane.
To the rest of the world, he looked like a cheating asshole.
He'd tried to explain, tried to beg—nothing worked.
"Fucking Veronica," he thought bitterly.
But what did it matter?
The first girl he ever truly loved didn't want him anymore.
For a high school kid spiraling into depression, that might as well be a death sentence.
The girl you love walking away—for someone else.
It crushes you.
⸻
Then, suddenly, a scream.
"ENOUGH!"
It came from one of the rooms upstairs.
Everyone paused for a second.
Then, back to partying.
Unless the cops showed up, nobody gave a shit.
But Brian couldn't let it go.
He walked up the stairs.
First door on the left—empty.
Door across the hall—also empty.
Only two rooms and a bathroom.
Then the scream came again.
From behind the bathroom door.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
Inside, the same voice—louder, more broken.
It sounded like someone was being assaulted.
Brian panicked.
He forced the door open.
Michelle was on the floor.
Crying.
Her nose bleeding.
No one else around.
"What the hell had happened to her?" He thought to himself.
He crouched beside her.
"You okay?" he asked, cautiously.
She turned her head toward him, blood running down her face, eyes dark and barely open.
"And who the fuck are you supposed to be?" she slurred.
"You were screaming like it was the end of the world. I wanted to check on you," Brian replied.
Michelle looked away.
"What the hell did you bring here?"
She pointed to the black bag.
"Whatever was in that—it did this to me."
Brian gave a small laugh.
"First time, huh?"
She nodded weakly.
That was the first time they spoke.
A real conversation.
And strangely, it clicked.
Michelle wasn't doing well.
As the evening wore on, she just got worse.
Brian first made her eat something.
Then he took her to a gas station car wash and soaked her down, hoping she'd sober up a little.
She couldn't go home like that—not in the state she was in.
Her body didn't even feel like hers anymore.
Her soul felt ripped out, as if it had taken a step outside her skin.
She couldn't speak.
Could barely walk.
And Brian knew he couldn't just leave her like this.
So, he drove.
He took her to one of the most iconic places in Los Angeles:
The hill under the Hollywood sign.
They sat in his car.
The city lights twinkling below.
Music playing low.
Michelle was half-asleep.
Brian had no idea what the hell he was doing.
He had just met this girl, but tonight—tonight she was his responsibility.
And deep down, he didn't mind.
Even years ago, when Michelle was in no shape to feel anything, Brian never laid a finger on her.
Not like that.
Not once.
Despite the tension.
Despite the flickers of attraction that surfaced from time to time—
They both ignored it.
Pretended it wasn't there.
But this time…
This time was different.
Brian looked at her and saw something else.
Something dangerous.
He tried to convince himself otherwise.
"It's not love," he told himself. "What I'm feeling—it's not love. This fucked up thing isn't love."
⸻
Brian's denial would only last a few days.
What he thought would fade in two or three days… stayed.
A week passed.
He was still thinking about her like a madman.
How the fuck did this even happen? he asked himself.
He left the house, put on his AirPods, and started walking.
Music blaring.
Trying to think about anything else.
Anything but Michelle.
But it was useless.
Sophie was a distant memory.
Love?
He wasn't even sure he knew what that was anymore.
Was this it?
Was this what love felt like now?
There was definitely something stirring inside.
But what if it's just lust?
What if I'm just lonely as fuck and she's… there?
He walked for hours.
Argued with himself the whole time.
Denied it.
Resisted it.
But it was no use.
Michelle lay across her bed, staring at the ceiling.
The room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the TV.
She wasn't watching.
She wasn't even thinking.
She was just… still.
It had been days since Theo called.
Weeks, maybe.
At first, she ignored the calls out of pride.
Now, the silence was deafening.
She hated feeling ignored.
She was used to being wanted—used to being chased.
And now there was no one.
No texts.
No notifications.
No warmth.
Her body craved attention like a drug.
She stood up and walked down the stairs in nothing but a thin black nightgown.
It clung to her skin.
Underneath, there was nothing.
Just a pair of long white socks, stopping just below the knee.
She poured herself a glass of whiskey.
Two cubes of ice dropped in, clinking like a countdown.
She took a sip and curled up on the couch.
The quiet was unbearable.
She opened her phone.
Instagram.
Messages.
Guys she didn't care about.
Compliments that didn't mean shit.
She scrolled aimlessly—until a name stopped her.
Brian.
She stared at it.
Should I?
Just for company?
Just to not be alone for a little while?
She didn't overthink it.
"Wanna come over 🫠 ??"
Five minutes later, he was knocking on the door.
⸻
Brian walked in without saying much.
He looked tired—but good.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
He took off his jacket, tossed it on the armrest, and flopped onto the couch across from her.
They didn't speak at first.
Just let the room breathe.
Then Brian poured himself a drink.
Michelle stretched her legs.
The silk of her nightgown slipped along her thighs.
She saw his eyes flick, just for a second.
He's trying not to look, she thought.
She smiled to herself.
Not smug.
Just… aware.
They talked.
Then laughed.
Then laughed harder.
Michelle hadn't laughed like that in weeks.
Brian leaned back.
Let the warmth of the drink melt into him.
She sipped her whiskey, eyes scanning him.
The way he sat.
His jawline.
His hands.
Why didn't I notice this before?
Or did I? And I just ignored it?
He noticed the look.
The shift in her breathing.
The silence between words.
The space between them was shrinking.
In every way.
Michelle shifted her body, just slightly—
enough for her nightgown to slide higher up her thighs.
Her skin caught the faint light from the TV.
She didn't adjust it.
Didn't pull it back down.
Brian noticed.
Of course he noticed.
But he said nothing.
Just sipped his whiskey and laughed at her joke, eyes darting back and forth—
between her smile
and her legs.
Michelle leaned in, resting her head against the back of the couch.
She was close now.
So close, he could feel the warmth from her body.
So close, her perfume had taken over the air.
Brian turned slightly to face her.
Their legs touched.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
A beat of silence.
Then she looked at him—
really looked at him.
Lips parted.
Eyes low.
Breathing slow.
"If I kiss her, there's no going back," Brian thought.
"Fuck it."
He leaned in—
just barely—
and Michelle met him halfway.
Their lips touched.
Soft.
Then again.
Hungrier.
Deeper.
Michelle climbed into his lap without hesitation.
Her arms around his neck.
His hands gripping her thighs.
Years of tension exploded all at once.
There were no words.
Just breathing, touching, unspoken hunger.
She ground her hips against him.
He was already hard.
She felt it—
and didn't flinch.
"What the fuck are we doing?" Brian's mind screamed.
But his body didn't stop.
Her mouth was on his.
Her tongue.
Her hands, now under his shirt.
His fingers tracing the curve of her spine.
Michelle pulled away for a second—
looked into his eyes.
Then she sank to her knees.
Michelle dropped to her knees in front of him.
Not shy.
Not hesitant.
Like she'd already made peace with what was about to happen.
Brian froze.
His chest rose and fell in hard, shallow breaths.
He watched her hands move—slow, deliberate.
Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants.
She looked up at him once.
No smile.
No seduction.
Just a silent, heavy stare that said:
"We're doing this."
And then she pulled.
Brian's back arched.
His eyes rolled halfway shut.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Her lips were soft.
Her rhythm—unforgiving.
She knew what she was doing, and she wasn't pretending otherwise.
Brian gripped the couch with both hands.
Tried to breathe.
Tried to hold back.
Failed.
"This isn't real. This is a dream. There's no way this is happening."
But it was.
And it didn't stop there.
⸻
She climbed back up, her nightgown riding high around her waist.
She didn't bother taking it off—
not yet.
She straddled him again.
Her body warm and electric against his.
She leaned down, whispered into his neck.
"Don't say anything."
Brian didn't.
He couldn't.
She guided him into her slowly.
No foreplay.
No fumbling.
Just breathless, quiet desperation.
They moved together in silence.
At first slow.
Then reckless.
Then animal.
The couch creaked beneath them.
Sweat mixed with whiskey breath and soft gasps.
Every motion blurred the memory of who they used to be.
⸻
They didn't stop after the first time.
Or the second.
They made love like enemies with nothing left to lose.
Like strangers trying to erase the past.
Like two people who'd been holding back for seven fucking years.
By morning, neither of them remembered how many times.
But both knew:
There was no going back.
The sun was already up when they finally stopped.
Sheets tangled.
Bodies sore.
Voices gone.
The room smelled like sweat, whiskey, and the death of a friendship.
Michelle lay on her side, facing away.
Brian stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, arms behind his head.
No one spoke.
He wanted to say something.
Anything.
But what the fuck do you say after that?
"Was it just sex?"
"Was it always there?"
"Are we in love now or just two fucked-up people clinging to each other?"
He turned his head toward her.
"What are we doing?"
Michelle didn't turn around.
Didn't look at him.
"I don't know, man," she said quietly. "I really don't."
That was it.
That's all she gave him.
And somehow, it said everything.
⸻
Michelle, maybe, just wanted the high.
The heat.
The attention.
But Brian?
Brian was already falling.
He didn't want to admit it, not even to himself.
But every time he thought of her now, he smiled.
Not out of lust—
but out of something deeper.
Something warmer.
Something way more dangerous.
He was in love with her.
With his best friend.
His "sister."
And for the first time, he didn't care.
They said nothing about what happened that night.
No labels.
No questions.
No "what does this mean?"
But they didn't stop.
They kept doing it.
Kept fucking like it was nothing.
Like it was everything.
Like it was the only way to breathe.
Sometimes it was on the couch.
Sometimes the kitchen counter.
Once in the backseat of Brian's car.
Once in her shower—
still dressed.
No words.
Just hands.
Mouths.
Urgency.
Every time, Michelle acted like it didn't mean anything.
But she never said no.
Never pulled away.
Never looked confused.
And Brian?
He stopped pretending.
He knew exactly what it meant to him.
Every time she touched him, he fell a little deeper.
Every time she moaned his name, it carved a new hole in his chest.
And every time she left afterward like it was normal, it drove him fucking insane.
"How long are we gonna keep pretending this is casual?"
"How many times do I have to fuck my best friend before she figures out I'm in love with her?"
But he never said any of it out loud.
Because if he did, she might stop.
And stopping was worse than silence.
They didn't want to dwell on it too much. They weren't even bringing it up—but how long could that last?
When Brian finally said,
"What are we doing?"
it was the first time they truly talked about it.
Michelle just replied,
"I don't know, man. I really don't know what we're doing."
For Michelle, maybe it was just about the physical pleasure. But for Brian, it was something else. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time it crossed his mind, he'd grin like a fool. He was falling for her—his best friend, his "sister." And he knew it. He wasn't hiding it anymore, wasn't in denial. He was happy.
Was this wrong? he asked himself sometimes.
But when he thought about it, it didn't feel wrong at all. He realized now that he'd wanted Michelle ever since that day years ago—after school, at Justin's friend's house. It had always been there, buried deep. Now it was out.
But he was scared.
What does she feel?
Was it love for her too—or just the perfect sex?
The next morning at work, Brian was on top of the world. Laughing with his coworkers, occasionally stepping into the field to help out. He wasn't even tired. Twenty-two years old, running his own business, making good money, and in love with his best friend.
Didn't people always say the best marriages were born from friendship?
It made sense now.
He and Michelle knew everything about each other.
And they cared too much to ever hurt one another.
After work, Brian drove home, parked his car, and sat there grinning like an idiot. Then he noticed something in the rearview mirror.
A car.
That same car had been behind him when he left work.
Was it just coincidence?
No way, he thought. Who'd want to hurt me? I'm not important. I don't mess with anyone.
He shrugged it off and went inside.
The car was still there. But now it was empty.
Probably belongs to someone across the street, he figured.
But there was a strange unease crawling under his skin. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stepped back outside, just in case.
He walked up to the car. Empty. Definitely hadn't seen it before. He circled it once, then checked the nearby house. Inside, he saw a couple—man watching TV, woman washing dishes.
Nothing unusual.
Maybe it really was theirs.
But then, turning back toward his own house—
The front door was open.
Did I forget to shut it? Why would I leave it open?
He couldn't remember.
With the knife still in hand, he stepped inside. But the blade didn't give him much confidence.
Could I even stab someone? Do I have it in me?
He searched every room.
Nothing.
Why would anyone want to hurt me? Who the fuck even knows me like that?
He felt silly now. Paranoid.
Relaxed.
He was heading out of the bedroom, about to close the door—
BANG.
Something slammed into the back of his head. A bat? A pipe?
He collapsed. Darkness.
When he woke up, terror gripped him.
His hands and feet were tied.
Across from him stood a man in a horrifying mask.
Holding a knife.
Who the fuck was this guy?
Why was he doing this?
Why the hell would anyone want to kill a young man like Brian, for no reason at all?