The Price of Unrequited Love

The scissors in Jayde's hand felt heavy. A single, decisive snip, and a lock of long, black hair fell to the floor. She watched it for a moment, then continued, cutting away ten years of careful cultivation. Ten years of growing her hair out because Brendan had once said he liked it long.

She stared at her reflection. The girl with the choppy, shoulder-length hair looked like a stranger. A stranger who was finally done waiting.

Her hands trembled, so she set the scissors down and walked to the kitchen. She opened the liquor cabinet, a place she never touched, and poured a glass of whiskey. The burn in her throat was sharp, unfamiliar. It was a new kind of pain, one she chose for herself.

With the glass in her hand, she walked to the living room, sat on the floor, and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, past her mother's name, past Brendan's, until she found the number she hadn't dialed in years.

Farrell Conner. Her biological father.

She pressed the call button. He picked up on the second ring.

"Jayde?" His voice was full of surprise.

"Dad," she said, her own voice sounding rough from the whiskey. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Of course. Is everything okay?"

"I want to change my college application," she said, getting straight to the point. "I don't want to go to NYU anymore. I want to apply to schools in California. Near you."

There was a pause on the other end.

"California?" he repeated slowly. "That's a big change. I thought your heart was set on staying in New York... on being close to Brendan."

The mention of his name was a dull ache. It always was.

"I've changed my mind," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"He's getting married, Dad."

She forced a laugh, but it sounded brittle and fake.

"He and Chloie are engaged. It's time for me to grow up, right? Stop clinging to my big brother."

"Jayde..." Her father's voice was gentle. "I'm glad you're thinking about your own future. Of course you can come to California. We'll figure out the applications. Whatever you need."

"Thank you, Dad. I'll handle the school stuff. I just... needed to tell you."

"Anytime, kiddo. I'm here."

She ended the call and leaned her head back against the wall, the empty glass tipping in her hand.

She stood up and went to the bathroom mirror, staring at her new, short hair. It was a mess, uneven and raw. Just like her. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it grounding her.

Three weeks. Her flight was in three weeks. She would survive until then.

She had to.

Leaving the bathroom, she saw the light on under Brendan's study door. He was home. A part of her, the foolish part she was trying to kill, wanted to see him. To say something. Anything.

Before she could stop herself, she was walking down the hall.

She took a deep breath and knocked.

The door opened. Brendan stood there, wearing a simple grey t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked tired, his brow furrowed as he stared at his phone. He hadn't even looked up to see who it was.

"Brendan," she said softly.

Not "Brother." She hadn't called him that in years, not since the day her world shattered. He was just Brendan. The boy her mother married into a family with. The boy who became her entire world.

He finally looked up, his eyes widening slightly when he saw her. He took in her hair, his gaze lingering on the shorn ends.

"What did you do to your hair?" he asked, his voice flat.

Before she could answer, his phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet hallway.

He glanced at the screen, and his entire expression changed. The weariness vanished, replaced by a soft warmth she hadn't seen directed at her in a very long time.

"Chloie," he answered, his voice a low murmur. "Yeah, I'm home. Just finishing up some work... Of course I remember. The venue for the wedding. I'll look at the options you sent."

Each word was a precise, clean cut into her heart.

The warmth in his voice, the easy intimacy-it was all for Chloie.

Her mind flashed back, a flood of memories she had tried so hard to suppress. She remembered the first day her mother, Glenna, had brought her to this house. She was eight years old, small and scared.

Brendan, a tall sixteen-year-old, had knelt down to her level.

"Don't worry," he'd said, his voice kind. "I'll be your big brother. I'll protect you."

And he had. He'd bought her a night light for her room because she was afraid of the dark. He'd learned all her favorite foods and made sure the cook prepared them. He'd helped her with homework, defended her from bullies, and celebrated every small victory.

She fell in love with him slowly, then all at once. It was an innocent, all-consuming crush that felt like the most important thing in the world.

On her eighteenth birthday, she gathered all her courage. She wrote him a letter, pouring out all her feelings, all her hopes for a future where they weren't just step-siblings.

His reaction had been swift and brutal.

He'd found her in the garden, his face a mask of cold fury.

"What is this, Jayde?" he'd hissed, shaking the letter in his hand. "Are you sick? I'm your brother!"

"We're not related by blood!" she had cried, her voice trembling.

He had just stared at her, his eyes filled with a disgust that burned her to her soul. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tore the letter into pieces, letting them flutter to the ground like dead leaves.

"Don't ever let me hear you say such things again," he'd said, his voice dangerously low. "It's wrong."

Then he had turned and walked away, leaving her sobbing among the scattered pieces of her heart.

She had gathered every last piece, taken them back to her room, and painstakingly taped them back together. The restored letter was a scarred, ugly thing, a perfect representation of their broken relationship.

Still, she'd hoped. She'd worked tirelessly, getting into the same university as him, thinking that if she just tried hard enough, she could fix what was broken.

Then he brought Chloie home. He had stood in the living room, his arm wrapped around the beautiful, smiling woman, and said, "Jayde, this is my fiancée, Chloie. I want you to make her feel welcome."

The pain of that moment was a physical thing, a crushing weight in her chest.

Now, standing in the hallway, listening to him plan his wedding, she finally understood. Her years of devotion had been nothing more than a childish joke to him. A burden.

She decided, right then and there, that she would be the one to end it. She would cut the final thread herself.

Jayde turned without a word and walked away from Brendan's door. She didn't belong there, listening to him plan a future that had no place for her.

She was an accessory in this house, a leftover from her mother's second marriage. A ghost haunting the hallways of someone else's family.

She wouldn't do it anymore. She wouldn't chase after his shadow.

Two weeks and six days. The countdown began in her head.

Back in her room, the silence was a comfort. Her gaze fell on the small, star-shaped night light on her bedside table. Brendan had given it to her on her first night in this house.

"So you're never scared of the dark," he'd whispered, plugging it in. Its soft glow had been her constant companion for ten years.

It was a symbol of a promise he had long since forgotten.

She reached out and switched it off. The room plunged into darkness. A fitting end.

With a new sense of purpose, she pulled a large trash bag from her closet and began to purge her life of him. She opened the display cabinet where she kept her most treasured possessions.

The first edition book he'd found for her. The custom-made music box that played their favorite song. The silver locket with a picture of them from her tenth birthday.

One by one, they went into the bag. It filled quickly, a decade of affection and careful presents turning into garbage. The bag was heavy, but her heart felt strangely light, hollowed out.

She moved to her desk and opened the bottom drawer. Inside were her diaries, their pages yellowed with age. She picked one up and opened it to a random page.

Her childish handwriting filled the page, complaining about a girl at school who pulled her hair. The next entry described how Brendan had shown up at her school the next day and spoken to the girl. The bullying stopped immediately. He'd never told her he did that; she'd only found out from a friend later.

She flipped through the pages. It was all about him. Brendan took me to the park. Brendan taught me how to ride a bike. Brendan said I was his favorite person in the world.

She reached the last page of the final diary. It was an entry from the day before her confession. He had found her looking at brochures for NYU.

"You'll study finance, just like me," he'd written on a napkin, his handwriting bold and confident. "And when you graduate, you'll come work at my company. I'll always take care of you."

A single tear fell, smudging the ink. She quickly wiped it away, her jaw tight.

She took the diaries and the taped-up confession letter and began to tear them apart. Each rip was a final, painful goodbye to a memory. A piece of her past, gone forever.

When nothing was left but a pile of confetti-like scraps, she dumped them into the trash bag with the rest.

A burst of laughter from downstairs drew her out of her room. She looked over the railing and saw Brendan and Chloie in the foyer. He was whispering something in her ear, and she was giggling, her head tilted back.

Jayde froze, her hand gripping the railing.

Chloie looked up and saw her. "Jayde! Come down! I brought you something."

She held up a small, elegant box from a famous bakery.

Jayde walked down the stairs slowly, her feet feeling like lead.

"I remembered you like sweets, so I got you a slice of mango mousse cake," Chloie said, beaming. "It's their specialty."

Mango. Jayde was severely allergic to mangoes.

A memory surfaced, sharp and clear. Brendan, age seventeen, swatting a piece of dried mango out of her hand at a market. "Don't you ever eat that," he'd said, his voice stern. "You'll end up in the hospital." He had remembered, always.

"Go on, take it," Brendan said now, his voice impatient. He didn't even look at her, his attention already back on Chloie.

He had forgotten. Or maybe he just didn't care anymore. The special protection, the quiet acts of care-they had all been transferred to Chloie.

It was the final, definitive proof. The last nail in the coffin of her girlhood crush.

She took the box from Chloie, forcing a smile onto her face.

"Thank you, Chloie. That's very thoughtful." She even glanced at Brendan. "Thank you, Brother."

His head snapped up at the old title, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Good, she thought, turning to go back to her room. This is the end.

Chloie stayed the night. Jayde lay in her bed, listening to the muffled laughter and soft murmurs coming from Brendan's room down the hall. Sleep was impossible.

She got up and went to the kitchen, making a cup of instant coffee. She hated coffee. She took a sip and grimaced. It was bitter, just like the feeling coiling in her stomach.

The next morning, she came downstairs to find Brendan and Chloie sitting at the breakfast table, looking at a travel magazine.

"What do you think, Jayde?" Chloie asked brightly, not noticing the dark circles under Jayde's eyes. "We're trying to decide on a honeymoon spot. Brendan can't decide. What's his favorite place to travel?"

Jayde's mind went to a rainy afternoon years ago, tucked away in the library. Brendan had pointed to a picture of the Eiffel Tower. "One day, I'll take you to Paris," he'd said. "Just the two of us. It'll be our secret."

The memory was now laced with acid.

"I'm not sure, I..." she started to say.

"Just ask me directly, Chloie," Brendan interrupted, not even looking at Jayde. "Why would she know?"

Chloie laughed lightly. "That's true. I guess you two aren't that close after all."

Jayde's smile felt like cracking glass. "I have to go. I have an appointment."

"An appointment?" Brendan's head shot up, his eyes sharp and suspicious. "Where are you going?"

The old possessiveness was still there, a ghost of the care he used to show. For a foolish second, her heart flickered.

"To the embassy," she said calmly. "For my student visa."

"A visa?" Chloie chimed in. "Oh, are you going to study abroad to be with that boy you like? How romantic!"

Brendan's brow furrowed. "What boy? Jayde, I've told you to be careful about the friends you make. You're too naive."

The cold condemnation in his voice extinguished the tiny flicker of hope. He wasn't concerned; he was controlling. She was just a problem he had to manage. She lost the energy to explain.

"Brendan, don't be so harsh," Chloie said, patting his arm. She turned to Jayde with a sympathetic smile. "Don't listen to him. Young love is a beautiful thing. You should be brave and go after it."

Brendan's expression softened as he looked at Chloie. He took her hand, and they stood up to leave. The sight of their entwined fingers was a final twist of the knife.

Her entire youth, a long, unrequited love song dedicated to him, had been a waste.

Two weeks and four days.

She walked out of the house into a gray, drizzling rain. The cold seeped into her bones. She remembered all the times Brendan had appeared by her side with an umbrella, shielding her from the storm.

"As long as I'm here, you'll never get wet," he used to say.

Now, she stood alone in the rain, pulling her jacket tighter. She would have to be her own shelter from now on.

Her phone buzzed. It was a notification from Instagram.

Brendan Maynard has posted a new photo.

She clicked on it. It was a picture of him and Chloie, their faces close, smiling blissfully. The caption read: "My forever. 10.28."

The comments were a flood of congratulations from friends and family.

She stared at the screen, but the expected gut-wrenching pain didn't come. There was just a vast, quiet emptiness. It was over. The fever had finally broken.

With a steady hand, she typed a single comment.

"Congratulations."