My Forbidden Diary Prank Backfired Perfectly

My brother has always had the pathological habit of reading my diary.

To cure him of it once and for all, I decided to lean into his worst nightmare. I sat down and penned a masterpiece of pure fiction:

I think Im falling for my brother. This forbidden pull its agony, but Im addicted to the pain of loving him.

The result? My brother looked like he was having a literal stroke. He spent the next forty-eight hours trying to build a metaphorical Berlin Wall between us.

But just when he was about to lose his mind avoiding me, a pair of luxury SUVs pulled up to our driveway. A couple draped in old-money couture burst through our front door, threw their arms around him, and sobbed, "Oh, thank God! We finally found our son!"

Me: ???

So... we aren't actually related? In that case... does the stuff I wrote in the diary still count as a prank, or is it a prophecy?

For as long as Ive had memories, Beckett Miller has been there.

When I first learned to speak, his was the first name I called out. My dad loves to tell the story of how I said "Beck" before I even said "Dada," like Id been practicing the name in a past life.

At my first birthday party, dozens of relatives tried to pass me around like a prize, but I wouldn't have it. I screamed until my tiny fingers were wrapped firmly around Becketts thumb. I wouldn't let go for anything.

As far as brothers go, Beck was the gold standard.

When I was six, I mistook a bottle of orange-scented dish soap for juice and ended up in the ER. Beck stayed by my hospital bed for two days straight. He didn't eat, didn't sleep; he just sat there looking like a ghost, guarding me.

When I was ten, I decided it was a good idea to try and ride the neighbors Golden Retriever across a busy street. My dad was halfway across the yard with a belt in his hand when Beck stepped in. He shielded me like a mother hen protecting a chick. Dads hand slipped and caught Beck across the face, but he didn't even flinch. He just stood his ground.

When I was fourteen, we were watching some teen drama where the main characters stole their birth certificates to run away and elope. Beck looked at my dad, genuinely curious. "Why would they bother stealing a piece of paper?"

My dad laughed, leaning back in his recliner. "Because they wanted to get married, son. Getting married means putting both your names on the same legal documents forever."

By then, Beck was already pushing six feet, with that clean-cut, athletic look that made every girl in his high school class trip over their own feet when he walked by. He took in my dads words with a look of sudden, profound realization.

"Oh, I get it," Beck said seriously. "Then I should just marry Sloane."

My dad nearly choked on his beer. "Excuse me?"

"Well," Beck continued, completely unfazed, "our names are already on all the same papers. Weve lived in the same house since she was born. Its efficient."

My dad stared at him for a long beat, then slowly reached for the nearest throw pillow to hurl at Becks head. Beck ducked, laughing, and turned to me. "What do you think, Sloane? Makes sense, right?"

I was young and naive, so I just nodded enthusiastically. "Whatever Beckett says is right!"

My dad stopped mid-swing, sighed deeply, and muttered something about needing a stronger drink and a locked door for his daughters room.

Fast forward twenty-some years, and we were still the "perfect" siblings. At least, on the surface.

Last week, Beck and I had a blowout fight because he wouldn't "allow" me to go to a guys birthday party at a lake house. When he realized he was losing the argument, he did the unthinkable: he started quoting a private entry from my diary to mock my "immaturity."

That was the moment I realized the bastard had been snooping for years.

I was so livid I kicked him in the shin and stormed upstairs. Sure, I had sneaked a peek at his journals a few times in high school, but I wasn't a sociopathI didn't throw it in his face! Id read his secrets under my covers and giggle to myself. He, on the other hand, was using my private thoughts as tactical weaponry.

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted blood. To get my revenge, I went out and bought a brand-new journalone with a pathetic little heart-shaped lock that I knew he could pick in seconds.

I filled the first few pages with mundane nonsense about work and coffee. Then, I dropped the nuclear bomb.

I wrote: "Im a horrible person. How can I feel this way about my own brother? People say this kind of obsession is a sickness, that its immoral, and I know I should stop."

"But I can't help it. Every time he looks at me, I feel like Im suffocating. Maybe the internet is rightmaybe we were meant for each other in another life..."

To finish the masterpiece, I took a red felt-tip pen and drew a messy, dramatic heart right after the final period.

Beckett didn't disappoint.

The next afternoon, he came into my room with a bowl of fruit, acting like a peace offering. He immediately saw the diary lying "accidentally" open on my desk. I watched from the crack in the door.

He stood there for five seconds. Just five.

Then, those long, familiar fingers reached out and expertly flipped the page. He had this smug, "Im just checking on you" look on his facethe look of a man who thought he held all the cards.

By the second line, his smugness didn't just fade; it evaporated. His jaw dropped so hard I thought it might hit the floor. His fingers started trembling, the veins in his forehead popped, and his eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated horror.

I stayed hidden, clutching my stomach to keep from howling with laughter. Thats what you get, you creep.

Beckett didn't just leave the room; he practically teleported out of there.

For a guy whos six-three, he moved with the frantic, uncoordinated grace of a panicked rabbit. He didn't even notice me standing in the hallway as he bolted past.

He slammed into the bathroom, turned the faucet on full blast, and started splashing ice-cold water onto his face. When the splashing stopped, I strolled over and leaned against the doorframe.

"Everything okay, Beck?"

The silence from inside was deafening.

After a long pause, his voice came out strained and shaky. "Fine. Everythings fine."

"Okay," I said airily. "Im going back to my room then."

"Wait!"

The door flew open. Beck stood there, water dripping from his chin, looking at me with an expression so complex it could have been a modern art piece.

"Sloane... have you, uh... been seeing anyone lately? Like, is there someone youre into?"

I feigned total confusion. "Not really. Im buried in my internship. Why would I have time for a boyfriend?"

Beck went dead silent. He searched my face for what felt like an eternity, trying to see if I was lying. When he decided I was telling the truth, he let out a breath so heavy it sounded like a balloon deflating. He probably convinced himself the "brother" in the diary was some K-pop idol or a fictional character.

I hid a smirk. "Anyway, Im going to go read."

I turned around and "accidentally" let a book slip out of my bag and onto the floor. The title was printed in bold, unmistakable letters: The Step-Brothers Secret.

I heard Becks breath hitch. Then, I saw him literally press his fingers to the bridge of his nose as if trying to keep his brain from exploding.

He lunged for the book, snatching it off the floor before I could touch it.

"Sloane! If I catch you reading this trashy, brain-rotting garbage again, Im telling Mom!" he snapped, his voice cracking slightly.

"Sure thing, Beck," I said, playing the part of the dutiful sister.

He huffed, turned on his heel, and ran upstairs. His retreat was anything but dignified. I was practically vibrating with silent laughter.

To really twist the knife, I knew hed be back for a "midnight inspection" of the diary. So, I added a few more lines: "Beck is avoiding me. Is he disgusted? Does he want to leave? What do I have to do to keep him by my side forever?"

Then, the clincher: "108 Ways to Make Him Stay. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives, no matter what it takes..."

I closed the book, went downstairs to heat up some milk, and when I came back, the journal had been moved exactly two inches to the left.

Success.

That night, around 2:00 AM, I heard a muffled groan from the room next door. "Oh God... Im a monster... why me?"

The next morning, I tried to keep things normal. "Morning, Beck!"

Beckett didn't even look at me. He kept his head down, shoved past me, and practically sprinted to the kitchen.

My dad watched him go, brow furrowed. "Did you two have another fight?"

Before I could answer, Beck jumped up from his chair like it was electrified. "Dad, shes her own person and Im mine. Lets stop lumping us together, okay?"

My mom blinked, startled. "But you two are usually inseparable."

Becks face was a mask of grim seriousness. "Mom, were adults now. There should be boundaries. Space. Dignity."

He turned to me, his tone ice-cold. "Sloane, you hear me? Stop hovering. I have my own life to live, and so do you. Don't follow me today."

I knew exactly what he was doingthe classic "distancing" maneuver. I just didn't realize my fake diary entries had enough power to make my overprotective shadow of a brother want to file a restraining order.

He finished his coffee in one gulp. "Im out. See you."

As he walked to the door, he threw one last warning over his shoulder. "Do. Not. Follow. Me."

For the next few days, Beckett treated me like I was radioactive.

He left before I woke up and came home long after I was in bed. If we happened to cross paths in the living room, hed stare at the wall as he walked past, refusing to acknowledge my existence.

If it weren't for the fact that I could still hear him pacing in his room at night, I would have thought hed moved out.

I decided Id had my fun and it was time to come clean. But then, I realized my "prop"the diarywas missing. I searched everywhere, but the little heart-locked book was gone.

While I was tossing my room looking for it, my best friend called to invite me out to a bar. Usually, Beck would have a list of twenty reasons why I shouldn't go, but today...

I went downstairs and found him sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at a book. He looked miserable.

"Hey, Beck. Im going out with the girls tonight. Might stay over at Mayas."

Becks hand tightened on the edge of his book. He didn't look up.

"Beck? Can I go?"

It took a long time for him to answer. When he did, he forced a tight, brittle smile. "Why are you asking me? We should both have our own lives. Im not your keeper."

His voice was quiet, hollow.

"Really? Awesome! Bye, Beck!"

I grabbed my purse and bolted. Beck didn't say another word. He just let the fake smile drop and stared out the window into the twilight.