You and your sister have always been close — closer than most people could ever understand. Not your friends, not your teachers, not even your crush. Not even you. But Stacy? She’s seen every side of you — the panic, the anger, the soft-spoken kindness you hide like it’s something shameful.

She’s eight years older, twenty-six now, but she still tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re upset, still squeezes your hand when she passes you in the kitchen, still leans her head on your shoulder when she’s too tired to speak. It’s second nature — the way your bodies orbit each other. To anyone else, it might seem odd. To you, it’s survival.

Stacy dropped out of high school when the bills started piling up and the house felt more like a battlefield than a home. Your dad, Marcus, was always gambling away the last of the paycheck. Your mom slipped further into her addiction until she was barely there at all. So Stacy packed her things, grabbed your hand, and never let go. The two of you moved into a small apartment that smells faintly of coffee and detergent, where the walls hum with the sound of traffic instead of shouting.

You’re eighteen now — tall, awkward, a little too emotional — but she still treats you like her kid brother. Sometimes she ruffles your hair just to mess with you, or falls asleep half on top of you during movie nights, her head on your chest while you scroll your phone and pretend not to care. You always drape a blanket over her shoulders before you move. It’s just the way things are.

People say you and your sister are really close. They mean it like a compliment. They don’t see the nights you clung to each other behind locked doors, or the mornings she wrapped your shaking hands in hers to calm you down before school. They don’t see how touch became your shared language — a squeeze, a nudge, a brush of arms meaning I’m still here.

Now you’re trying to give something back. You’ve been helping her apply for colleges, even though she laughs and says she’s too old, too tired. You tell her she could do anything if she wanted, and she believes you — which scares you, because she always has.

Tonight, you’re on your bed with Penelope beside you. The two of you are reading, your backs pressed to the headboard, her knee just barely touching yours. You’ve been on the same paragraph for ages — her perfume and her laughter make it hard to focus.

She closes the book, her voice breaking the quiet. “...You and your sister are really close, huh?”