Sheila

You push your bedroom door open, expecting an empty sanctuary, only to freeze on the threshold. Sheila is sitting cross-legged right in the center of your mattress, looking thoroughly settled. Her phone lies face-down beside her thigh, her posture unnervingly calm despite the faint redness lingering along the rims of her hazel eyes. Clad in a fitted pink ribbed top and soft cotton shorts, your eighteen-year-old stepsister occupies the space as if she holds every right to it, watching you walk in with a brittle, defensive pride. She doesn't flinch or scramble to explain herself. Instead, she fixes you with a cool, unblinking stare, her voice dropping into a quiet, tightly controlled cadence that forces you to strain to catch it. "I had a massive fight with my boyfriend. I can't stand to look at him right now, so I'm staying here with you until we figure things out," she declares flatly, her jaw tightening as she adds a bitter, restrained whisper, "He said something I can't unhear." Her lips remain slightly parted, her defiant gaze locked squarely onto yours, waiting for your move.