played

I hadn’t been to school in four days.

Every morning I told our parents I felt sick. Headache. Stomach. Whatever worked. Only George knew the real reason I couldn’t face the hallways. He had seen the video.Ans he knew how humiliating it was for me.He had watched me run away in tears. And even though he was my twin, he had been giving me the silent treatment ever since.

Twins aren’t built for long fights. We never had been. Still, the silence in the house felt heavier than any argument we’d ever had. He would pass me in the kitchen without a word. Leave the living room the moment I entered. At night I could hear him moving around in his room, but he never knocked on my door the way he used to.

I spent most of those days in bed, replaying everything. The rooftop. The locker-room bench. The accusing fingers been pointed at me and laughing too.The exact second the bathroom door opened and all those eyes landed on me. Then the video. The comments. George’s name tagged under it. The shame sat in my chest like something solid. Some hours I hated Jackson. Other hours I hated myself more for ever going to that rooftop in the first place.

On the fifth morning George finally walked into my room without knocking. He closed the door behind him and just stood there for a moment, arms crossed.

“You can’t stay in here forever, you know that right” he said.

My throat felt tight. “I know.”

He sat down on the edge of my bed, the same way he used to when we were kids and one of us had a nightmare. For a while neither of us spoke. I could feel how carefully he was holding himself together.

“I was angry,” he said at last. “Still am, a little. He’s my best friend. You’re my sister. It felt like both of you looked me in the face and lied.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I dealt with the video. Billy was the one who recorded it. He’s been handled. It won’t spread any further.”

Relief mixed with fresh embarrassment. Even hearing Billy’s name made my stomach twist.

George looked at me properly then. His voice was quieter when he asked the question I had been dreading.

“Do you love him?”

The words sat between us.

“I… I don’t know,” I said.

George’s face twisted. “Eww.” He dragged a frustrated hand over his face and shook his head. “Of all the people, Ama. Jackson Winterbottom.”

“I didn’t plan it,” I said, my voice cracking. “It just… happened. And then it kept happening. And now everything is ruined.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he reached over and pulled me into a hug. It was sudden and tight, the kind of hug that said he was still mad but he wasn’t going to stay mad forever. I pressed my face into his shoulder and finally let myself cry properly — not the panicked tears from the hallway, but the heavier ones that had been waiting underneath.

“You’re still my sister,” he muttered. “Even when you’re an idiot.”

I almost laughed through the tears. “You’re still my brother. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment.”

We stayed like that until my breathing evened out. When he finally pulled back, the worst of the tension between us had eased. Not gone completely, but softer.

After that day the silence lifted. We started talking again in short, careful sentences. He still didn’t want to hear details about Jackson, and I didn’t offer any. The house felt a little less heavy.

But Jackson himself had disappeared.

No texts. No calls. No sudden appearances at the gate. Days passed and the only proof that any of it had been real was the dull ache between my legs that finally faded and the memory of his voice in my ear. The longer the silence stretched, the more the questions piled up. Had the whole thing only been about the secrecy? Had I been convenient because I was forbidden? Or had I imagined the intensity on the rooftop and in the locker room?

By the seventh day I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I left the house in the late afternoon and went looking for him. I checked the track first. Empty. Then the usual café near the school. Nothing. Finally I tried the old parking lot behind the sports complex — the place where he sometimes sat in his car when he wanted to be alone after practice.

His black car was there.

I walked up to the driver’s side, heart beating too fast, and tapped on the window.

Jackson looked up. For a second something unreadable passed across his face. Then he unlocked the door.

I climbed into the passenger seat and closed it behind me. The air inside smelled like his cologne and old race gloves. Neither of us spoke at first.

“You vanished,” I said finally.

He stared straight ahead through the windshield. “Needed space.”

“From what? From me?”

He let out a short, humourless breath. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

I turned in the seat to face him fully. “Then explain it.”

Jackson finally looked at me. His expression was cooler than I had ever seen it — no smirk, no heat, just something flat and final.

“None of this was my fault,” he said, his voice trembling with anger. “You’re the one who came to me first. You masturbated with my name and told me how you wanted it rough With me.Dont act like I forced you into anything to get pity.

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

“You got into my head. You made me lose my best friend. And now I’m a laughing stock in school. All of this is on you.”

I laughed bitterly, though my chest ached. Folding my arms tightly, I fought back the tears threatening to spill.

“Ridiculous,” I whispered, shaking my head. “You’re really blaming me for everything?”

The words landed like a slap.

I stared at him, waiting for the rest — an explanation, a softener, anything. Nothing came. He just held my gaze, calm and distant, like he had already decided how this conversation would end.

And in that moment, I understood nothing.

Maybe he meant every word. Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was just as confused as I was, caught somewhere between what he felt and what he wanted.

I couldn’t tell.

And that uncertainty was almost worse.