Cora paused the movie and turned around fully. “Who?”
I swallowed, blinked, then let my eyes fall to hers as I remembered how to breathe. “My sister.”
Her eyes widened. “Sister?” Gently, her head lifted from the pillow beside her. “I thought Oscar was you’re—”
“There were three of us.” My shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, though it felt more like defeat than explanation. My gaze slipped somewhere past her, far away. “I don’t talk about her. Oscar doesn’t either.”
Something flickered across her face—softness, not pity. She shifted closer on the couch, our legs tangled under the threadbare blanket as her hand found the back of mine, as steady and warm as her stare was.
“Oh.” The word was barely there, a breath more than a sound. Her gaze searched my face. “Why do you look so sad?”
I tried to shrug again, but it collapsed halfway, useless. “Because I’m always sad when she’s in my head.” My eyes tracked the cracks in the ceiling. “Because every time I see something yellow, she’s all I can see.”
Her head tilted. “Yellow?”
“Her favourite colour.” My voice caught, like the word itself was too sharp. I swallowed, forcing the name out anyway. “Lana. That was her name.”
The air seemed to shift when I said it. Saying it out loud always hurt me, like an arrow to my chest, striking true every damn time.
Cora didn’t move, didn’t look away. Just tightened her hand over mine, grounding me here, now, when everything in me wanted to slip back into the past.
My throat burned. “Talking about her… it’s…” The words faltered, jagged in my mouth. I let out a breath, shaking my head like it might clear the weight pressing against my ribs. “It’s impossible. I can’t do it without being reminded of the ways I hurt her.”
Her thumb brushed once across my knuckles, light but grounding. The smallest touch, but it rooted me in themoment. That natural pull to look at her took over then, and my gaze shifted to hers.
She hesitated. Lips parting, closing. Her gaze flicked over my face like she was searching for cracks she had no right to touch. “Can I—” She stopped herself, teeth catching her bottom lip. “No. You don’t have to say anything. Not if it hurts.”
Something in me twisted at that—her willingness to let me keep the silence. Everyone else had always wanted answers, details, explanations. But her? She wanted me to keep it, if keeping it meant I could breathe easier. She wasn’t asking for the weight.
And maybe that was why the words clawed closer to the surface. Maybe, just this once, it wouldn’t kill me to let them out. Maybe it would hurt less than keeping them buried.
I blinked, throat tight, then nodded. “She was seventeen.”
And then her eyes rounded, looking at me like I was the fucking North Star.
I took the deepest breath I’d ever taken.
“She was three years older than me and six more than Oscar. Other kids would complain about their sisters being the worst thing to happen to them, but I never understood them. Lana… she was my everything.” I couldn’t help but smile as long brown hair and the biggest green doe eyes I’d ever seen filled my mind. “I think I mentioned how I was non-verbal back then.”
Cora nodded.
“And it was Lana who taught me to paint what I wanted to say. Said it was my superpower. On top of that she wasbringing home straight A’s, did every after-school activity you could think of, waitressed on the weekends, and knew what she wanted to be even before she was a freshman.”
Clouds invaded my mind as I slowly closed my eyes. “But then she met this guy.”
“From her classes?” Cora asked.
I hated that I had to shake my head as my eyes found her again. “He worked shifts with her at the same restaurant. Some line cook or something.” I remembered his face, all tattooed, unwashed hair, and so not the person she was suited for. And I knew she knew that because she never brought him home to meet Mamà, only bringing him to the house when she had to babysit us.”
I tried to ask her about it, but she’d always roll her eyes and tell me I’d understand once I was her age.
Cora’s other hand found mine, threading her fingers through them like an anchor.
The squeeze she sent through them told me to take a breath.
So I did.
“She came home with bruises sometimes. Said they were from banging into something at work. Said he’d never actually hurt her. That it wasn’t what it looked like.” I exhaled, jaw clenching. “I believed her. Or I wanted to. I didn’t know how to say what I needed to say. I couldn’t exactly paint how I knew something was wrong in a way she’d understand, you know.”
