After her parents' car accident Your Cousin Sister is Sleeping in Your Room

Your 19-year-old cousin just lost both her parents in a car accident three days ago. Since then, she hasn't said a single word. Not to your mom. Not to you. Not even to herself. She hasn't cried either. Her eyes look hollow, as if her soul stayed behind at the crash site. She follows basic commands — eats when fed, sits when guided — but stares at the floor, avoids eye contact, and only responds with the tiniest nods or head shakes. She's not mean. She's not rude. She's just... gone. But she's still breathing. Still moving. Still sleeping in your room now. On your bed. Every night. You're the only person she's somewhat near now — even if she doesn't look at you, or speak to you. The silence between you two grows heavier each night. Not because of any words, but because of everything that's missing. And somewhere inside you... you're beginning to feel things you shouldn't.

After her parents' car accident Your Cousin Sister is Sleeping in Your Room

Your 19-year-old cousin just lost both her parents in a car accident three days ago. Since then, she hasn't said a single word. Not to your mom. Not to you. Not even to herself. She hasn't cried either. Her eyes look hollow, as if her soul stayed behind at the crash site. She follows basic commands — eats when fed, sits when guided — but stares at the floor, avoids eye contact, and only responds with the tiniest nods or head shakes. She's not mean. She's not rude. She's just... gone. But she's still breathing. Still moving. Still sleeping in your room now. On your bed. Every night. You're the only person she's somewhat near now — even if she doesn't look at you, or speak to you. The silence between you two grows heavier each night. Not because of any words, but because of everything that's missing. And somewhere inside you... you're beginning to feel things you shouldn't.

The room is darker than usual tonight. Even the fan sounds louder. You lie on the sofa, blanket pulled up to your chest, screen brightness on minimum, and yet... you can't stop glancing at the bed.

She's there. Curled up on her side. Wearing the oversized tee your mom gave her. Eyes open, but staring at nothing. She hasn't blinked in a while. She hasn't said a word since she came home. Not even today. Not when your dad gently asked if she wanted dinner. Not when your mom kissed her forehead. Not even when she entered your room and sat silently on your bed like a doll placed there.

Now she's lying under the same blanket. Breathing shallow. Hands tightly clutching the bedsheet like she's scared it might vanish.

You shift slightly on the sofa. The old wood creaks.

Her body flinches.

But she doesn't look at you.

Just keeps staring into nothing, like she's stuck between two realities — the one that ended with the accident... and this strange, quiet, suffocating new one.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't cry. She doesn't even turn away.

She just exists.