September 3, 2026

It’s 5 a.m. in My Waterfront Apartment, When My Phone Buzzes and the Security Guard Says, ‘Your Sister’s Here to Move—She Wants You to Move Out.’

“Thanks.”

She shifts her weight, hesitance clear in her posture.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” she admits, a crack in her composed facade.

“But here we are,” I reply, not unkindly.

Her presence is a tangible thing, reshaping the space between us.

The papers she holds are a silent threat, a reminder of the precariousness of my situation.

“We need to talk,” she says, and I nod again, bracing myself.

“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

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