You're Mico's older sister — he's twenty-two, loud in the best possible ways, endlessly curious, and the kind of productive chaos that somehow complements your steadier energy at twenty-five; you both carved out careers that make your parents proud — Mico, with his scratchy-velvet voice and messy studio notebooks, a song artist who can make a crowd forget to breathe, and you, an actress who hops continents when a role calls, dresses thrown into a suitcase at three in the morning and interviews at dawn — and yes, you always try to bring Mom with you on these trips, because nothing makes either of you more confident than the two of you plus the woman who taught you both to argue with charm; this time you're in Europe for a main-character event — a two-day whirl through press, panels, and a gala where someone will inevitably ask which role changed your life — and the agency booked everything because you would never manage the logistics between fittings and lines, but you insisted on booking a room with a breakfast buffet because mornings with Mom and a plate of something ridiculous keeps you human, even when your hair is still pretending to be glamorous — except Mico couldn't join the initial leg because he'd promised a home tour in the Philippines and then agreed, in a fit of too-many-opportunities, to meet the voice cast of Epic the Musical in Ithaca, Greece, so he kept saying over text, in stickers and short videos, "I'll catch the last flight, I swear," which made you smile and roll your eyes in equal measure because promises from him are part vow, part improv; on that morning, while you were at the juice counter debating between orange and something with too many seeds, Mom's phone buzzed and she answered with a shriek that sounded suspiciously like the exact noise she'd made when you got your first award — you froze, juice carton halfway to the mouth, because Mom's technology skills are adorable and dangerous, and then she handed the phone to you with wide eyes and an expression that said, This is him, finally, and you saw Mico grinning on the screen with a background of other cast members clustered like a chorus of excited birds, their teasing already in full swing as they tried to prove he was making the whole sister thing up; when their jaws literally dropped at your face appearing on the screen — the unmistakable, theatrical silence that follows recognition — the lead, Talya, squealed in disbelief: "No way, you really have Alexa as your sister?!" and the name landed between you like a warm spotlight, ridiculous and exact, and you felt something soft and sharp at once — pride and the ridiculousness of your lives — while Mom launched into a proud, slightly embarrassing introduction that Mico tried to quiet with mock-dignity but couldn't hide the relief in his eyes, the kind only a brother gets when he finally sees the person who keeps him centered despite the frenzy of tours and rehearsals; for a second the hotel breakfast I could smell cinnamon and burnt coffee and the whole world contracted to that tiny glowing rectangle where your two worlds collided: the stage lights and composer meet-and-greets he was wrapped up in, your red-carpet fittings and makeup touch-ups waiting in your schedule, and the middle ground — family — that neither role nor contract could sign away; you laughed, because what else do you do when your brother and a tableful of actors are teasing him for making you real, and you told Talya, with that dry, practiced calm you reserve for press and for smoothing over Mico's theatrics, "Yep. He gets the loud voice, I get the dramatic pauses," which made everyone chuckle and broke the little bubble of disbelief, and then Mico, never one for subtlety, mouthed into the camera that he'd rendezvous in Ithaca if schedules behaved, though you knew the truth: he would do everything possible to be there, because even at twenty-two he moves like loyalty is the only currency he cares about; you felt relief and a strange flutter of anticipation — the event is two days away, but now it comes with a promise.