What I’m Afraid Of

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🌒 Sonder

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I didn’t mean to overhear them talking.

Not that I had to try hard — my mother’s voice always pierced through walls like it belonged to someone more alive than me.

“…and the Edevanes are finally settled again, isn’t that lovely?” she said, probably fixing her hair in the mirror. “It’s been years since we’ve had a proper evening with them.”

My father hummed. “Yes. Elias says the boys are thriving. And Serin’s grown into such a bright little thing. Reminds me of Elara at that age.”

I winced at that.

Because I hadn’t been bright for a long time.

And I hadn’t been little since I first learned what disappointment sounded like in my father’s voice.

---

I used to think childhood was supposed to be warm. The kind with mismatched pajamas and burnt pancakes and sleepy laughter. Maybe it is for some people. But for me?

Childhood was piano recitals and silent dinners. It was tip-toeing around perfection. It was being told that crying was “dramatic,” and that dreaming too big was “unrealistic.” My mother didn’t like messes. My father didn’t like emotions.

And my brother Rion?

He was so perfect, it hurt.

I still remember how he smiled when he got into that prestigious university in Germany. Everyone clapped. My mother cried. And all I could think was, he’s getting out.

He left me behind.

With parents who loved him loudly — and me correctly.

There’s a difference.

So I stopped trying to be lovable.

I became quiet.

Untouchable.

A little wild in secret — but tame enough to pass.

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It’s why I can’t handle people like Calem.

Because the way he looks at me — like I’m something soft, like I haven’t been hardened by everything I’ve had to bury — it makes me want to feel again.

And I don’t know if I’m ready to bleed that deeply again.

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That weekend, we were all invited to a small gathering at the Edevane home. Nothing fancy — just dinner, catching up, the kind of thing adults force onto teenagers in the name of nostalgia.

I sat in the backseat of our car in silence, arms crossed, nails digging into the denim on my thighs. My mother glanced at me through the mirror.

> “Try to be pleasant, Elara. You used to be close with Calem, remember?”

No. We weren’t close.

We were just children in the same garden.

And gardens don’t mean much when you’ve grown into thorns.

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The Edevane house smelled like cinnamon and books. Cozy in a way mine never was. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, and the air buzzed with something I couldn’t name. I wanted to hate it. Instead, it made something inside me ache.

I didn’t see Calem at first.

I saw her.

She came down the stairs like a breeze — small, sharp-eyed, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

> “Hi. You’re Elara, right?” she asked me directly, no hesitation.

“I’m Serin. Calem’s sister.”

I blinked. “…Didn’t know he had one.”

She grinned. “Yeah, I’m the forgotten one. Like a plot twist. But cooler.”

She had that kind of energy. Curious. Electric. A little nosy. The type of girl who noticed everything but didn’t always say it. Until she did — with brutal honesty.

I liked her instantly.

Which scared me.

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We sat across from each other at dinner. Calem sat diagonally beside me — close enough that I could feel the heat from his arm but far enough that he wasn’t intruding. It was… deliberate.

I didn’t look at him.

Not directly.

But every time I laughed at something Serin said, I felt him glance at me. And every time I passed a plate or poured water, his fingers brushed mine like he was reminding me: I’m still here.

I hated how much I noticed that.

I hated how much I wanted to notice.

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After dinner, while the parents got caught up on boring adult things, Serin pulled me into the backyard.

> “You and my brother have, like… a thing?” she asked casually.

I choked. “What? No. Definitely not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mmm. Okay. You look at him like he’s a sad song you pretend you don’t like.”

I stared at her.

“…You’re fourteen, right?”

“Almost fifteen,” she said smugly. “Old enough to see through your walls.”

I sighed, sitting down on the porch swing. “You’re observant.”

She sat beside me, swinging lightly. “So what happened to you?”

I turned to her slowly.

> “Excuse me?”

She didn’t flinch. “You act like someone who’s been hurt. Like… you think everyone who’s kind is lying.”

I wanted to snap at her.

But instead… I froze.

Because she was right.

Because it hit too close.

> “You don’t know me.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t cruel. It was… gentle. “Not yet. But I want to.”

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It hit me then.

This girl — this wild little version of who I might’ve been if I hadn’t learned how to armor myself — she wasn’t trying to hurt me.

She was trying to see me.

And that was worse.

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Later that night, as we said goodbye, Calem walked us to the door. Our parents were busy saying their last long goodbyes like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

He leaned closer, just enough for me to hear.

> “She likes you. Serin. She doesn’t like many people.”

I turned slowly. “She’s bold.”

He smiled. “She’s honest.”

“…You’re both terrifying.”

He looked at me then — really looked — and I felt something in my chest shift.

> “You don’t have to be scared of us, Elara.”

I flinched. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” he said softly, eyes searching mine. “But if you ever are… I’ll be here anyway.”

I turned away before I could feel too much.

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That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about everything I’d said, everything I hadn’t.