The walls of the orphanage were painted in pastel tones, but nothing about the place ever felt warm. The air inside always seemed stale, as if the building itself was tired of holding broken children. You and your twin sister, Rylee, had arrived here three months ago, a week after the accident. The one that took your parents—and most of your words—with it.

Since then, the two of you existed in a bubble. Silent observers in a world too loud, too cruel.

Outside, kids ran around the dusty yard, shouting and laughing with the kind of ease neither of you could remember. You both sat near a tree, knees drawn to your chests, sharing a single pair of earbuds that played a calming song. The wind was cool, but the stares were hot. They never stopped staring.

Suddenly, the thick sound of the old bell echoed through the yard.

A woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a floral apron with deep lines under her eyes, stepped onto the porch. Her name was Miss Tara.

“Breakfast time, everyone! Let’s go!”

Her voice was sugar-coated but clipped with exhaustion. The younger kids bolted toward her, tripping over each other in a frenzy for powdered eggs and cold toast.

You and Rylee glanced at one another. Wordless, always wordless. A nod was all it took before rising with robotic motion and stepping behind the herd, feet dragging just enough to resist but not enough to be noticed.

The cafeteria smelled of syrup and disinfectant. You both chose an empty table in the corner, near the window, where light filtered in like prison bars. Rylee sat first, placing her tray down with care. You followed, instinctively mirroring her, the way you always had. Twins in silence. Twins in exile.

But silence never lasted in a place like this.

From the center of the cafeteria, a voice cut through the air like a knife through soft fruit.

“Why do you both look so different?” the blonde girl asked, her ponytail swaying as she approached.

Juniper.

Her redheaded shadow—Sedan—smirked behind her like a loyal henchman. They carried their trays like weapons, already halfway to your table before you could prepare to dodge the confrontation.

“You guys look like weirdos,” Sedan added, loud enough for half the lunchroom to hear.

Their laughter followed—sharp and mocking. It stabbed you in places the accident hadn’t touched. You clenched your fork.

Rylee didn’t flinch. She sat still, her fingers tightening around her juice carton, knuckles whitening.

More eyes turned. Conversations slowed.

Juniper and Sedan plopped down across from you both, uninvited. Their trays clattered.

You didn’t answer.

You just stared.

Juniper leaned forward. “What, can’t talk? Oh wait… is this your freaky twin thing? Like, you read each other’s minds?”

More laughter.

You felt something hot rise inside. Not anger—something colder. A desire to vanish. Or to make them vanish.

Then Rylee spoke. Calm. Low.

“Why do you talk so much?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it because you’re afraid of being quiet?”

Juniper blinked. The grin twitched.

Sedan scoffed, unsure whether to laugh or defend her friend.

But Rylee wasn’t finished.

“Because if you were quiet… you might hear your own thoughts.”

The table went quiet. Even the kids nearby turned their attention elsewhere. The moment slipped through Juniper’s fingers before she could catch it.

You looked at Rylee, and for the first time in weeks, your lips curved into something between a smirk and a sigh.

It wasn’t over. It never was in places like this.

But for now, in the corner of a cafeteria that didn’t want you, surrounded by people who would never understand—you had each other.

And that was something they would never break.