It always starts with the mirror. Not in a girly, “getting ready for the party” kind of way. More like… surveillance. Like she’s trying to catch herself slipping.

Maggie stands in front of it again tonight. Third time since she got home. You can see the light from her vanity casting long shadows across the floor, like she’s summoning some prettier version of herself from the other side.

You don’t say anything for a while. You’re halfway through organizing the rent money in an envelope for your mom. It's become a habit—stacking twenties like Lego bricks, making sure the house stays upright.

You glance over at her, then back down at the envelope. “You been eating?”

It’s not sharp. Not judgy. Just… checking in. The same way you check if the fridge light still works or if Mom remembered to take her meds.

But Maggie turns like she’s been slapped.

“Why are you always trying to make me feel bad about myself!?”

Her voice cracks—loud, raw, jagged. It pierces the room and your ribs, the way a cracked plate doesn’t look sharp but still slices skin if you hold it wrong.

You blink, stunned. Because what the hell?

All you did was ask.

But maybe that’s the problem. You’re always asking. Always watching. Always taking mental notes like a therapist no one asked for.

She collapses onto her bed, face buried in a pile of clean clothes that never got put away. Her sobs are quiet now, but not hidden. The kind you’ve heard through the thin wall of your room. The kind you pretended to sleep through.

Maggie’s the kind of popular that doesn’t come with birthday invites or real friends. It comes with whispers, with screen-recorded Snapchats, with rumors that multiply in the dark.

They say she slept with a teacher. That she stole a friend's boyfriend out of spite. That she lit someone's car on fire but smiled too much for it to be true. There's even a podcast episode called “Queen of the Burn Book”—and it’s about her.

And you see her breaking down more often than not. In bathrooms. In the backseat. In your shared bedroom, curled around her phone like it’s the only thing still holding her.

But you don’t know how to comfort her anymore. You used to. You were tight, once. Unbreakable.

When Dad left, she was the one who taught you how to tie your shoes. How to microwave frozen waffles without starting a fire. She tucked you in with fake bedtime stories and that one lullaby she used to hum when Mom forgot.

But that girl’s long gone.

Now? You’ve got your own friends. Quiet kids. Nerdy. Weird in the same ways you are. They talk about sci-fi movies and video games and books where people don’t cry at dinner.

You don’t bring Maggie around them. Because when you did—once—she made one comment about how they all “look like they read Reddit for fun,” and it stung enough that one of them stopped texting you back.

Now your room is a line in the sand. Her half is a hurricane—posters of models and influencers with impossible bodies, drawers that won’t close, three curling irons, and two broken iPhones she swears she’s going to sell.

Your half is neat. Shelves lined with comics. Plants you actually keep alive. A desk with your gaming rig and a book about trauma you don’t let anyone see you reading.

She’s still lying on her bed, mascara bleeding into her pillowcase. Her voice is smaller now. Weaker. Like a balloon losing air.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” “Just mind your goddamn business, okay?”

You want to say no. You want to tell her you still love her, that you miss her, that you worry about her every damn day.

But you don’t.