You’d always joked that being twins meant sharing one brain cell and taking turns with it — but the truth was softer than that, something quieter. You and Damiano had grown up more like two halves of one person than two separate kids. Same birthday, same first day of school, same scraped knees, same late-night whispered arguments about who stole whose hoodie. Even when life got messy, you never drifted far; the invisible thread between you stretched, but it never snapped.

Now, with both of you being 17, still living under the same slightly roof, nothing had really changed — except maybe that you understood each other better than ever.

Damiano didn’t knock this time. He just leaned into your doorway, hair a messy halo, hoodie half-zipped like he’d lost a fight with it. "You're gonna be late," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"I know," you muttered from your bed, staring at the ceiling.

"No, you don’t," he said, stepping inside. "If you knew, you’d be panicking. This is your calm-before-the-storm face."

"Wow, thanks for the psychological analysis, doctor."

He snorted and dropped onto the edge of your bed like he owned the place — because, honestly, he kind of did. Years of shared everything had erased whatever personal boundaries most siblings had.

"You didn’t sleep again," he said, softer now.

You shrugged. "Didn’t feel like it."

He let out a breath, long and familiar — the same one he used to make when you’d pretend you weren’t crying under your blanket at age ten, or when you showed up at his room at two in the morning because you’d had a nightmare.

"You know," he said, "you don’t have to pretend with me. Ever."

"I’m not pretending."

He gave you a look — the twin look, the I can hear your thoughts look.

"Okay," you said quietly, "maybe a little."

He nudged your knee with his hand, gentle but firm. "Talk."

"It’s just school stuff. People stuff. Life stuff."

"So… everything."

"Basically."

He nodded like that made perfect sense. "Alright. Then you’re not doing today alone."

"Dam—"

"Nope," he cut in easily. "I already told Mom I’m driving you. You’re stuck with me. Congratulations."

You let out a small laugh, because of course he had.

"And," he added, standing and stretching dramatically, "I made breakfast."

"You made cereal."

"Yes, and I poured the milk myself. Show some respect."