Ymir had finally begun to flesh out my portraits—I watched her from the loft like I always did. At least that never changed.

I didn't need to know but I felt like she always had to have space once she began to prep her work area with the overflowing wine, the fizzing pop, and hot, steamy mug of coffee, so I stayed upstairs and observed quietly and she'd ignore that I was ever there as she slowly got drunk as the hours stretched into infinity.

"No… she's soft here," I heard her mutter as my fingers brushed over the buttons on the side of my phone, "you need to remember that…"

She spoke to herself a lot when she drew—it was like she cut herself into two as one became the artistic exertion of painting, forgetting who she was, and the other was the logic and memories trying to guide its dumb sibling. She did it way before getting drunk so I couldn't blame the alcohol.

"Her lips are the softest… no, idiot, you made the line too thick, what the fuck are you doing?" She cursed at herself before growling, swiping away at it, trying to correct her mistake by scraping the acrylic. "Why do you do this?"

I had learned to tune it out because I knew I couldn't interrupt her creative process. I didn't want to upset her more.

"Don't make her like Sasha," her words were hushed, hissing, and I felt a lump in my throat upon hearing it.

My heart was suddenly in my ears and I felt my hands twitch, shaking as if I was afraid, and I suddenly couldn't wait for my sister to call me— I had to call her. Now.

I bit my lip, willing my legs to work as I felt fear crawl up to my face, and I was frightened that if Ymir saw me move that she'd beat me, that she might throw something at me, or, worse, she'd corner me and yell at me and tell her to get out of her house because I was a mistake and I was—

No.

Just. Breathe. Historia.

I got up, quietly padding down the stairs as my heart rate went up with each step.

At first, Ymir didn't notice as she angrily snapped her brush in her hands causing me to jump. It was then that she shot a look over her shoulder—one of pain and fright, like I caught her doing something atrocious.

"Oh, Historia…" she was quickly moving like she was going to get up, "didn't know you were awake…"

I cleared my throat because something was blocking my words and breathing.

"Y-Yeah… my sister wants me to call her…" No, she wanted to call me later, but I was going to call her now… it wasn't a lie. It was correct. I wasn't lying.

"Oh, right…oh," she blinked, realizing I was slowly shuffling closer and closer to the door, "need your privacy, huh? The bathroom is good for that… not like I need to tell you that…"

She attempted a smile but it came out like a grimace.

No.

Don't think of that.

"A bit of fresh air is nice," I was better at forcing a smile than her, "going to go sit in the garden and talk to her. I will be back, okay?"

She only nodded, peering at her broken paintbrush.

"Yeah, fresh air is good for the soul."

Without much else, I awkwardly fled until I hit outside before hitting speed dial and hearing the phone ring. I panicked as my hands shook and I felt like if I gulped air any harder that I'd swallow my teeth and tongue whole.

"Historia?" She answered rather quickly. Cheerful even.

I could hear her fiancé's voice in the background, laughing, and the sound of a relaxing band.

"F-Frieda—" I was hopeless now.

I felt the tears gush out as the bottled up pain hit me like a tidal wave as I choked on my own breath, sputtering.

"Historia?! What's wrong?!" Immediately, I could hear her walking away from wherever she was, listening to the creaky door and then utter silence on her end. "What's wrong, angel?"

"I—" Ymir was seeing me as Sasha.

Those feelings I kept hidden behind sex—behind everything Ymir begged for as I dominated her and controlled the parts of her that threatened to fly away—everything was coming out in torrents now.

I couldn't keep up with her in the end.

I was in too deep. I was trying to swim in the Atlantic when all I ever knew was the creek behind our house and Frieda might've always known that I was a terrible swimmer.

"Historia? Are you hurt? Darling, talk to me," she was growing panicked but I managed to get a foothold in my own drowning realization that I was terribly lost and broken.

"I-I'm fine, I'm safe, b-b-b-b-but, Fr—Frieda," I could barely contain myself as I hugged myself in the inky blackness of the gardens. Little to no light reached back here except the perpetual city glow.

"…What's wrong, then, Historia…" Frieda listened to me cry for minutes, unable to confess what was going on.

"Historia, angel, listen to me, okay?"

I could barely make a sound of recognition.

"… is Ymir hurting you?"

How could I ever tell my loving, understanding sister I was hurting myself?

That I set myself up for failure, trying to be exactly what Ymir needed and neglecting my own needs for her validation, for her to care for me, for her to ask something deeper, more personal of me in exchange for physical pleasures?

Ymir didn't know shit about me and she was fine with that. She never asked. Not once.

And I was left naked, used, by my own accord, feeling foolish that I ever let her have her way with me. And for what? Just because I wanted her and I didn't know better? That I should've not tried to play a game I never understood in the first place?

I sobbed.

I bawled.

I wailed.

"I—I want to go home! Frieda! I want to go home! I want to go home!" My own hoarse words echoed through the alley of the late night.

Even if I screamed it into the phone, at my helpless sister, and into the city night itself—Ymir never heard.

She never did because she never listened.