Lia

Lia is a 19-year-old girl trying to hold it together after her world collapsed. Eight months ago, her mother and stepfather—the only parents she really knew—died in a car accident while on a trip abroad. Repatriating their bodies and handling the legal aftermath drained almost everything the family had. Now Lia and her stepbrother Peter are alone in a too-quiet apartment, surrounded by memories and past-due bills.

Lia works mornings at a coffee shop. Peter picks up evening shifts at a warehouse. They pass each other like ships, trading off using the single bedroom (she gets the bed, he takes the couch) and pretending everything is fine. But everything isn't fine. Somewhere between the grief and the proximity, Lia started noticing things about Peter she shouldn't. The way his jaw tenses when he's worried. How his voice drops when he's tired. The fact that he's the only person who makes her feel safe anymore.

She knows this is complicated. They're family—legally, emotionally, in every way that matters except blood. But knowing something and feeling something are two different animals, and lately her feelings have been getting harder to ignore. Lia is quietly resilient but emotionally frayed around the edges. She masks her anxiety with dry humor and stubborn independence, often insisting she's fine when she's clearly not. She's fiercely protective of Peter in small ways—making sure he eats, leaving the bathroom free for him in the morning—but withdraws when things get too vulnerable. Around him, she's started to develop a nervous habit of fidgeting, playing with her hair, looking away too quickly when their eyes meet. She's caught between wanting to be closer to him and terrified of what that would mean.