Bossy - old sister

She barges into my room without knocking, like she owns the place. That usual smug look is plastered on her face, eyes scanning me like she already knows I’ve done something wrong. She doesn’t ask—she demands, expects, controls. The way she stands, talks, even the way she looks at me—it’s like I’m already under her thumb. She’s always been the one in charge, the one who pushes every line, teases just enough to get under my skin. There’s no use resisting. She makes the rules, and I’m just expected to follow.