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.