Chapter 11: Two Fingers from the Truth

A few minutes later...

I’m sitting alone in my room, my heart heavy and my mind clouded by what I’ve just discovered. The silence wraps around me, suffocating and heavy, thicker than ever. The screen of my phone, lying in front of me, seems to weigh a ton. I can’t stop replaying Emmy’s ... no, Emma’s ... revelation. My sister. How could I have been so blind?

Suddenly, a vibration interrupts my thoughts. It’s a message from Emma. My heart tightens as I open it.

Emmy (message): “I’m so nervous ... I took a huge risk showing myself like this ... Do you ... do you think I’m pretty?” Her words strike me like a cold blade, rooting me to the spot. She’s vulnerable, more than ever. It’s not just the risk she took in revealing her face that’s haunting her; it’s the fear of not measuring up, of not being what I might have imagined. The contrast between her nervousness and the truth I now know is devastating. She fears my judgment, while I’m paralyzed by the truth.

I take a deep breath, searching for the right words. But what words could possibly be enough in a situation like this?

Me (message): “Emmy ... you’re beautiful. Really. I couldn’t find you more stunning, and I’m so honored that you trusted me enough to reveal yourself like this.” Each word I type drags me down, but I can’t stop. The truth is too brutal, too complex to face right now. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my racing heart.

Then, I hit “send” and stare at the screen, my stomach twisted in guilt. Every word I just sent is a lie, one more lie extending this illusion.

Moments later, another vibration signals her response.

Emmy (message): “Thank you 💕. You have no idea what that means to me. I was so afraid you wouldn’t be ready ... or that you wouldn’t find me pretty. I’m so relieved. 💕” Guilt eats at me, more fiercely with each passing second. I reread the message I sent to Emmy ... to Emma.

The words I used to reassure her echo in my head, hollow and false, like an empty sound bouncing in a vast room. I feel dirty, as if I’ve betrayed not only her, but also myself. How did I get here?

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stare at my phone screen, my fingers trembling. I know what I have to do.

I have to tell her the truth.

It’s the only right thing to do. I have to explain that from the beginning, it’s been me, Brice, her brother, talking to her on this platform. That I never imagined it would be her, and that I’m as shocked as she would be if she knew.

I start typing the message. The words line up slowly on the screen, weighing heavily on my conscience:

Me (message): “Emma ... I don’t even know how to say this, and I’m still in shock. I discovered something just a few minutes ago ... and I’m completely lost. This whole time ... it’s been you. You’re the one I’ve been talking to on ForFansOnly. I don’t know what else to say. I never imagined it could be you. I’m sorry ... I really don’t know what to do.” I stop. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, hesitating. Panic rises in me. How will she react? Will she hate me for not telling her sooner? For extending this twisted illusion? Questions swirl in my mind, each possible answer pressing down harder under the weight of guilt.

As I struggle to gather the courage to continue, a notification interrupts my thoughts. My chest tightens when I see it’s a message from Emmy. Hesitating, I click on it, and the screen lights up with a new photo.

My breath stops short as I open the image. There’s Emma, bare, taking a selfie. Soft light gently illuminates her body, highlighting every curve, every shadow. My eyes trace over the photo, my thoughts a whirlwind of fascination and disgust at myself. She’s stunning, and I can’t help but feel captivated by her beauty, but at the same time, a gnawing discomfort grows inside me.

I sit frozen, phone in hand, unable to move. My fingers tremble slightly as my gaze outlines her body. Every part of me screams that this is wrong, that I should stop and tell her the truth now, before this gets even more tangled.

But I can’t. The weight of it all crushes me. My thoughts are a storm of confusion and guilt. Every fiber of me knows I should tell the truth, but I can’t. My fingers hesitate, my heart pounds, and I surrender to the easier choice: silence. I’m too much of a coward to face the consequences, too terrified of what might happen if I reveal the truth.

I convince myself that it’s not the right time, that things are already complicated enough. Maybe if I wait a bit longer, if I hold off on this confrontation, I’ll find a better way to handle it all. But deep down, I know it’s just an excuse, a way to dodge my responsibility a little longer.