You do not want your sibling. You want the feeling of being known so completely that no word needs to be spoken. And because the world has taught you that only the forbidden tastes that intimate, your brain—that traitorous architect—drapes the longing in skin and shadow.
And the fantasy, for now, sleeps inside the bone. End of piece.
You came from them. You could always go back.
There is a door in the house you grew up in that you never learned to lock.
But here is the thing about blood: it remembers. After the fantasy fades—after the shame or the thrill or the strange, hollow ache—you still have to eat breakfast across from the person whose face you borrowed for your private theater. And they will never know. That is the loneliest part. The fantasy is yours alone. The blood is shared.
So you lock the door again. Not because you are pure. Because you have learned that some rooms are not meant to be entered. They are meant to be visited in the dark, with trembling hands, and left before dawn.
And still. Still, the mirror on the wall—the one that shows you your mother’s eyes, your father’s frown—whispers the oldest temptation in the house of man:
Not the front door. Not the one to your childhood bedroom. I mean the small, inward door—the one that leads to the basement where the family resemblances live. The shape of your mother’s jaw in your own cheek. The way your brother laughs, and you hear your own echo a second too late. Fantasi sedarah is not about bodies, not really. It is about sameness so profound it becomes a kind of vertigo.
