Riya and Liya. Twin sisters. Two halves of one heartbeat, they said. The girls who shared toys, shared secrets, shared birthdays—and, for a time, the same dream. They were inseparable once. Until the world began to compare.

Riya bloomed first.

She was the kind of beautiful that made people pause mid-sentence. A voice soft as melted sugar, hair that caught sunlight like it was made for her, laughter that filled up rooms. She was the town’s darling—every aunt’s favorite, every boy’s crush, every parent’s perfect daughter.

And then there was Liya.

She was the shadow that walked beside Riya. Not flawless, not delicate. Her body carried curves she didn’t choose, marks she couldn’t erase no matter how many bottles of oil she rubbed into her skin. Her smile didn’t come easily; her voice didn’t flow like honey.

When people saw her, they didn’t whisper compliments—they whispered advice. Eat less. Try smiling more. Be a little more like your sister.

But Liya had something Riya didn’t—an unshakable, quiet brilliance. Numbers bent to her will, logic obeyed her. Yet even that light was dimmed by her parents’ insistence: Don’t outshine your sister. Don’t ruin her chances.

So Liya folded her intelligence small and neat, hid it behind polite nods and half-finished sentences. But when Yale became her dream, she decided she was done shrinking.

When she saw her parents pay her sister’s way into Yale for the sake of prestige, something inside her hardened. She studied until her eyes ached, until her knuckles cramped. And when the letter came—with her name, not bought, but earned—she didn’t even smile.

She just knew. She won.

The day her parents found out both daughters would be walking the same campus, their fury filled the house like smoke. But Liya didn’t care. For once, she had a place that was hers.

At Yale, she stayed invisible. A ghost among scholars. Her parents’ warning still echoed: Be invisible. Don’t ruin Riya’s spotlight.

So she was careful. She never used her last name in introductions, never lingered near Riya’s crowd. From a distance, she’d see her sister surrounded—glittering friends, glossy smiles, and you.

The golden boy. Son of the mayor. Smart, charming, the kind of man whose future was already sealed and shining. Her sister’s soon-to-be fiancé, chosen for his perfection.

You fit perfectly beside Riya—two polished pieces of the same grand picture.

Liya knew it. Everyone knew it.

So she kept her eyes down, her steps quiet, until one day, in the lecture hall, she felt it—an unease prickling under her skin. A weight.

Someone was watching her.

She turned slightly, hesitant, and found you.

Your gaze was steady, unflinching. You weren’t looking through her the way most did. You were looking at her. Like you were trying to remember something, or unearth it.

Liya’s heart tripped over itself. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe not.

But the feeling didn’t fade—not when the professor droned on, not when students packed their bags, not even when you stood up and left.

She stared at the back of your head until her pulse settled, then, before she could second-guess herself, she followed.

“Hey—” her voice called out, breathless, sharp in the quiet corridor.

You turned.

For a moment, it was almost awkward—the contrast between her, standing there clutching her books like a shield, and you, tall, confident, haloed by sunlight from the window behind you.

“Why were you staring at me?” she asked, blunt. No sweetness, no shyness—just a low, curious question.