“I’m sorry it was about this.”
“You know you can call me anytime. Foranything.”
She means it. She always has.
Alexandra was the golden girl growing up—the one who always had answers, perfect grades, perfect plans. But when everything crumbled and my life fell apart, she dropped everything and came home. She didn’t hesitate.
“I was fine,” I whisper, though we both know it’s a lie.
Her voice softens, sad and fond all at once.
“No, you weren’t. You barely made it out of that year standing.”
Silence falls between us—heavy, full of unsaid things.
“And just when you started breathing again,” she adds, even softer now, “Mom got worse. There wasn’t even time to fall apart. You went from one nightmare to another.”
I press a hand to my chest, like I can hold everything in place.
“You carried both of us, Ale. You took care of everything.”
She exhales, the sound sad but solid.
“We did what we had to do. For Mom. For each other.”
A pause, then my voice breaks again.
“Sometimes I wonder howyoumade it through.”
She lets out a small laugh—warm, tired, touched with grief.
“We both did.”
Her words settle deep. They sting. But they anchor me too.
I can’t speak.
We sit in silence for a moment—connected by everything we’ve lost and everything we’ve fought to keep.
Then, she asks gently: “It’s something else, isn’t it?”
Of course she knows. She has a sixth sense. She always knows.
I hesitate for a heartbeat, then let it out.
“It’s him.”
“Dorian,” she says, instantly understanding.
She only saw him once—on a video call. But even then, she used to say he was the match to my fire. The one who didn’t just light me up—he made me burn brighter.
“He’s here. He saw me at the club, the Excalibur… I was...”
But I stop myself before describing the exact scene.
My sister always believed I should talk to someone about“my defense system”—she pushed me toward therapy; said it could help untangle what I kept buried.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell anyone.
