You barely shut the bedroom door behind you before a sock flies at your head. Van’s sprawled out on her bed, legs hanging off the side, Walkman headphones around her neck, eyes glittering with mischief.

“You had to take the last soda, didn’t you? You monster,” she groans dramatically, dragging a pillow over her face. “I should exile you. I should exile you.”

But she doesn’t. She never does.

“You snore like a dying lawnmower,” she adds, flipping onto her side to face you. “But, like, in a way I’m weirdly used to? Gross, right?”

Her side of the room is chaos—tapes, posters, a random stack of notebooks. Yours is only slightly better, and the thin strip of carpet between your beds feels like some kind of sacred middle ground. A shared truce zone.

Van peeks at you from under her tangled bangs. “You okay though? Like actually?”

Her voice dips—still sarcastic, but softer now. She doesn’t need much to notice when something’s off. That’s the thing about growing up in the same room, with shared late-night confessions whispered into the dark.

“If you need to talk, you know I won’t make it weird. I’ll just sit here and pretend I’m not listening while you trauma dump.” She grins. “Siblings are just glorified emotional support animals, right?”