I finally felt like I was breathing again. Years. It took years to get to this point, to build a life that felt solid beneath my feet instead of shifting sand. The ghost of him, of us, had finally started to fade, replaced by a quiet, steady rhythm. I had packed away the memories, not forgotten them, but neatly filed them under “past.” A beautiful, agonizing chapter that had closed. I truly believed the story was over.He was my everything, once. The kind of love that felt predestined, carved into the stars. From the moment we met, it was like finding a missing piece of my soul. We fit perfectly, in every way. Our laughter intertwined, our thoughts mirrored. The intimacy wasn’t just physical; it was a profound, almost spiritual connection that convinced me soulmates were real. He understood parts of me I hadn’t even discovered yet. We talked about forever. We planned a future. We were inseparable.
Then, it shattered. I won’t get into the specifics; it’s too raw, even now. Suffice it to say, our future dissolved, pulled apart by circumstances that felt beyond our control. The pain was a physical thing, a constant ache in my chest that lasted for what felt like an eternity. I remember nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how the universe could be so cruel, how something so perfect could just… end. It took me years to pick up the pieces, to learn how to exist without him, to find joy in a world that felt permanently dimmed by his absence. I thought I’d grieved him, truly grieved the loss of that love.
A man shouting and gesturing with his hands | Source: Freepik
I had rebuilt. A new apartment, a new career path, even new friendships that didn’t know the “me” who was half of a pair. I’d gone on dates, tried to open my heart again, albeit cautiously. It wasn’t the same, of course, but it was good. It was enough. I was finally, truly, moving on. I was content. The past was a scar, faded but present, a reminder of what once was, but no longer an open wound.
Then the phone rang. An unfamiliar number, a formal tone. My heart clenched, instinctively. Why now? The woman on the other end introduced herself as an estate lawyer. My mind raced, trying to place her. Had someone I knew passed? Her next words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. She informed me, in a calm, professional voice, that he had passed away last week.
A smiling older man | Source: Unsplash
I hung up, not even knowing how I managed to. The world spun. He was gone. The boy I loved, the man I still sometimes dreamt of. A fresh wave of grief, sharp and unexpected, washed over me. Why was she calling me? We hadn’t spoken in years. The lawyer called back a few minutes later, apologizing for the abruptness. She explained that he had left a surprising, albeit small, bequest to me in his will. And that she needed to speak with me about some… family history related to his estate.
Family history? My head was still reeling from the news of his death. “What does that have to do with me?” I asked, my voice thin. She explained that he was adopted. Adopted? I never knew that. He had only recently found out himself, apparently. And in his last months, he had been trying to connect with his biological family. She said that his will included instructions for his estate to go to certain people, if certain biological connections could be proven.
Tom Holland and Zendaya at SiriusXM’s Town Hall on December 10, 2021, in New York. | Source: Getty Image
A cold dread began to seep into my bones. “And what connection is that?” I whispered, my mouth suddenly dry. She paused, then took a deep breath. “It seems he recently discovered his biological parents. And one of them, your father, was… well, the same person as your father.” My breath hitched. NO. This was a mistake. A sick, cruel joke. “My father?” I choked out. “That’s impossible.”
“I assure you, we have definitive proof,” she said, her voice softer now, sensing my distress. “Your father was his biological father. And your mother, his biological mother. They had him young, before they were married, and gave him up for adoption in secret. They never told anyone.” The world tilted. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. My mind screamed. ALL CAPS. I couldn’t breathe.
HE WAS MY BROTHER.
Nikki, Paddy, and Tom Holland and Zendaya seen in a post dated December 22, 2025 | Source: Instagram/samholland1999
The words echoed in my skull, a monstrous, unthinkable truth. Every touch, every kiss, every intimate whisper, every shared dream, every argument, every tear, every single moment of our passionate, consuming love replayed in my mind. It wasn’t love. It was… it was incest. My stomach churned. A wave of nausea swept over me, so intense I barely made it to the bathroom. My parents. My own parents had lied to me my entire life. They had let me fall in love with my own brother. They had let us fall in love. They had kept this horrific secret, letting me unknowingly commit the most unthinkable taboo.
The man I thought was my soulmate, my destined partner, was my blood, my sibling, given away and then, by a twist of fate too cruel to comprehend, brought back into my life as my forbidden lover. The bond we felt, the one I always attributed to perfect romantic chemistry, now made a terrifying, sickening kind of sense. It wasn’t destiny. It was genetics.
Flowers on a grave | Source: Midjourney
The story wasn’t over. It had just been rewritten in blood, stained with a lie that reached back decades, destroying every memory, every feeling, every piece of who I thought I was, and who we were. He’s dead. And I am left with this. This crushing, unbearable truth. I will never be able to un-know this. How do I live with this? How do I look at my parents? How do I ever look at myself again? The story of us, the one I thought was over, just became an eternal nightmare.
