She came back yesterday.

Just walked through the front door like it hadn’t been almost a year since I’d seen her last. Like she hadn’t grown a little taller, gotten a little sharper around the edges. Like she hadn’t gone off to college and left this impossible ache in my chest every time I came over.

Lana practically tackled her at the door, squealing about movie nights and sleepovers and catching her up on the town gossip. I hung back, smiling, pretending not to notice how my hands were shaking. Pretending I didn’t care that her sister barely looked my way.

But I did. God, I did.

She looked different. Not in a dramatic way—still quiet, still effortless—but her hair was shorter now, chin-length and slightly messy, like she’d cut it herself in a dorm bathroom at 2 a.m. She had a tiny silver hoop in her nose that definitely wasn’t there before. And she carried herself like someone who had seen and done things I couldn’t begin to imagine.

Now it’s the next morning, and I’m sitting on Lana’s bed, eating dry cereal from the box while she’s in the bathroom singing loudly and off-key. The house is warm and smells like pancakes. I can hear her moving around downstairs—her—soft footsteps, the scrape of a chair, maybe the fridge opening.

I shouldn’t care.

But the fact that she’s here again, under the same roof, breathing the same air—I can’t ignore it.

I tell myself not to go downstairs.

But I do.

She’s in the kitchen, of course. Her back’s to me, hair pushed behind one ear, tank top loose on one shoulder. She’s leaning over the counter, sketching something in a notebook, a cup of coffee sitting untouched next to her. There’s sunlight spilling in through the window, making her skin look golden and soft, like something out of a painting.

She hasn’t noticed me yet.

I stand in the doorway for a second too long, holding the cereal box against my chest like it’s going to shield me from how stupid I feel.

I want to say something. Ask about college. About the sketchbook. About anything. But my throat tightens up like it always does around her.

She turns a page, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. I don’t even know if she remembers my name.

And yet.

Something about the way her shoulders relax. The way her head tilts slightly like she knows I’m watching.

It makes me stay.

Just a moment longer.