I was deep in thought, trying to make sense of my mother. Just moments ago, I'd seen her smiling on TV—radiant, poised, investing in some glossy movie project like she was building a legacy. A legacy that didn't include me.
She never speaks of me.
Never looks for me.
As if I don't exist.
The silence was louder than any denial. And then, like a whisper in the dark, another thought crept in. She must be involved in my father's death.
The idea clawed at my chest. If that was true, then someone—maybe more than one—could be out there, hunting me. Not for who I am, but for what I have. The box.
The one my father gave me just before he died. His hands were cold, his eyes full of something I couldn't name—fear, maybe. Or love. Or both.
What was in that box?
Should I open it?
Was this the moment he meant?
I kept asking myself questions, each one heavier than the last. Until I remembered his final words: "You'll open it when the time comes."
Then I stood up—too fast, too suddenly. My chair scraped against the floor as I rushed to my room. There it was. The box. It sat quietly on the table, wrapped in shadows. Unopened and waiting.
The air felt heavier here. The curtains barely moved, but the light had shifted—like the room itself knew what I was about to do. I stepped closer. My fingers hovered above the lid. And for a moment, I swore I could hear my father's voice again. "You'll open it when the time comes."
I stepped away from the box, my heart pounding fast and loud, my hands trembling. The air felt thick, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Then I heard a voice—faint at first, then clearer. "Ethan, where are you? Do you want to join me? I'm going out to see a friend."
It was Charmaine, her voice drifting down the hallway as she walked toward my room. I knew this was the perfect moment. The only thing I needed to shake off the weight of my thoughts—about my mother, about the day my father died—was a breath of normalcy.
"Charmaine!" I called out. "Wait for me. I'd love to go. And are you gonna buy me ice cream on the way?"
By now, she was standing at the door. She smiled, soft and familiar. "Let's go," she said.
We walked out together, happy—like real brother and sister. And in many ways, we were. Charmaine was the only family I had left, besides Auntie Carol. That made her more than just close. That made her mine.
As we strolled down the street, we saw a girl about my age struggling to carry a few bags of groceries. Her steps were slow, her arms weighed down. I nudged Charmaine with my elbow. We locked eyes, and I whispered, "Can we help her?"
Charmaine looked at me and smiled—one of those smiles that said she saw something deeper in me than just kindness.
"Hey there!" she called out. "Mind if we give you a hand?"
The girl looked up, surprised but grateful.
"Oh, thank you. That's kind of you. I'm only going two blocks from here, but I'd appreciate the help. I'm Cindy."
"Charmaine," she replied warmly, "and this is my little brother, Ethan. He's the one who insisted we help."
Cindy turned to me and smiled. Her eyes lingered for a moment, and I gave her a warm, radiant smile in return.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
We walked together, chatting lightly. I couldn't stop smiling. I didn't know if it was love at first sight or just my first real crush—but whatever it was, it felt new and impossible to hide.
Charmaine had already walked ahead, giving us space. She'd noticed something. She always did. After we dropped Cindy off at her place, we continued walking. I was still smiling, lost in the moment.
Before I could say anything, Charmaine turned to me and said, "Today is the best day of my life. I saw your beautiful smile. Was it because of the girl?"
I blushed. No words needed. My face said it all. Charmaine couldn't hold herself together—she burst into laughter, clearly delighted to witness my first crush bloom right in front of her.
But our joy was short-lived. Charmaine's smile faded. Her face turned pale. I followed her gaze, and that's when I saw it—a girl about her age, kissing a boy.
Charmaine's steps quickened. Her body stiffened with disbelief. She marched toward them, her voice trembling with betrayal.
They turned around, saw her standing there. But neither flinched. No remorse. No apology. Just silence—and their hands still locked together.
"Liza!" Charmaine cried. "Why? You're my best friend. And now you're kissing my boyfriend? What kind of friend does that?"
Liza tilted her head, her voice cold and sharp.
"Oh, look at you. You really thought Peter was serious about you? Please. How could he love someone like you—a poor girl with nothing to offer? You were being played, Charmaine. Obviously, he's in love with me."
The words hit like knives. I saw Charmaine's heart break in real time—her eyes wide, her breath caught, her body frozen.
I couldn't take it. I ran toward Liza, fists clenched, rage boiling in my chest. I swung at her—but she dodged with ease and slapped me hard across the face.
The sting burned. I stumbled back, stunned. I tried to kick her, but Charmaine grabbed my arm, pulling me away.
"Ethan, stop," she whispered, her voice cracking. "She's not worth it."
As they turned to walk away, something inside me snapped. I shoved Charmaine aside—gently, but firmly—and sprinted toward Liza. Rage blurred my vision. I grabbed her by the arm and yanked hard. She stumbled, lost her balance, and fell to the ground.
Before I could say a word, Peter spun around. His kick came fast—too fast. A roundhouse to my neck. I hit the ground hard, gasping for breath, the world spinning around me.
Charmaine rushed to my side, panic in her eyes. But Peter didn't hesitate. He slapped her across the face, the sound sharp and cruel.
"Stay away from me," he growled. "Or you'll be looking for trouble."
Peter's words echoed in my mind, cruel and final. But they didn't break me. They reminded me of Cedric, and his uncle, the martial arts trainer. Maybe it was time. Maybe I had more reasons now than ever to join them.