Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 29

I awoke late that morning, surprised to see that, even though it was twelve in the afternoon, Sherlock was still asleep in the bed next to me. I got up, softly tip-toeing across the room and into the kitchen, plugging the coffee machine into the wall and filling it with coffee grounds and then turning it on and waiting for it to drip into the thick glass pitcher. Not knowing what to do since nobody else was awake and it was my first time being up by myself, I awkwardly paced over to the window and sat down on the sofa, my torso pressed against the backrest, my arms crossed and supporting my chin as I looked down at the snow.

This, I learnt quickly, was good for thinking. Thinking was an easy way to pass the time, and looking at the snow made it easy to think. I watched all the people below, looking so tiny and insignificant. What were they all doing? What important things did they have in store today? Maybe one of them would end up saving a life. Maybe one of them would find a lost kitten in the street. Perhaps one of them would get engaged. But they were all doing something, and I liked to imagine what that might be.

I pretended I knew what they were doing. That man in the taxi, I told myself, was rushing to an important meeting with his business, and the lady underneath my window was–

Oh, God, what was she doing?

She was kissing another girl. And not just sweetly, either. It was hardcore, pressing-up-against-the-wall-and-grasping-at-clothes kissing. And I froze even more as I realised that I had met one of the girls before.

"You moving in early, too?" she had asked us before. After grasping for it in my head for a long time, I finally reached he name.

Irene.

And the other girl, I technically hadn't met before. Not really. I never necessarily met her, because I'd known her my whole life.

It was Harry. Harry and Irene.

My stomach dropped along with my jaw as I gaped down at them, not doubting for a second that either of them were someone else. I wonder if Harry knew I lived here; if she knew we could see her. Perhaps she didn't care.

Half of me was disgusted. Because nobody should show their romantic affection that strongly in public. And that was my sister.

But the other half of me was proud. Because, even though they were both the same sex, even though it wasn't classy or polite, they weren't afraid of people knowing they were together. And, though homosexuality was rarer than not, they had found each other, unafraid to put themselves out there and confess.

I was also proud because it was my sister.

Hearing the bedroom door opening, I turned to see Sherlock emerging from the room. He looked tired, and he slunk slowly to the refrigerator.

"Good morning, John," he said, taking a glass and filling it with water. He drank water in the morning because the cold woke him up. Coffee did not. I still couldn't wrap my head around why it didn't.

Not responding to his greeting, I pointed out the window. "Harry and Irene..." I began, but I didn't have to finish the sentence because Sherlock was already next to me, watching them.

He nodded, not seemingly surprised, sipping his drink and watching them intently. "That's why I was so confused when she asked me to dinner."

I whipped round to face him. "She what?" I asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

"I declined, of course. I told her I wasn't hungry."

I pointed down at my sister again. "And you knew they were together all along?"