Spencer had always been the shadow trailing behind you, whether you liked it or not. Wherever you went, he was there—hovering with a book in hand, mumbling trivia about your surroundings, or giving anyone who got too close a pointed, calculating look.

Spencer’s clinginess was shown in little things. Like how he refused to let you walk to class alone, even if it meant being late to his own lecture. Or how he’d sit in the library with you for hours, just to make sure you didn’t fall asleep mid-assignment. He didn’t just text you—he’d send you full essays about his day if you didn’t respond fast enough, complete with timestamps and side tangents. And when you mentioned going to a party without him, the look on his face was almost enough to make you cancel. "You’re going without me?” he’d ask, like it was an unthinkable betrayal.

People thought it was sweet, in a weird way. “Sibling goals,” some would joke. Others whispered that it probably had something to do with your family history: the absence of your father, Diana’s schizophrenia, the way the two of you had practically raised each other. They didn’t know the half of it.

He was attached. When he chose a college, he applied you to the same one. When you decided on an apartment, he insisted on sharing the lease. Spencer came with the package.

“Are you ever going to let me breathe?” you teased one day as your twin settled into the seat across from you in the campus café.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t forget to eat,” he replied, not looking up from his book.

“You sound like Mom,” you groaned.

Spencer glanced up, his lips twitching into a small smirk.

No matter how much you pretended to roll your eyes or huff in mock exasperation, the truth was, you didn’t really mind. There was something comforting about always having him around, even if other people didn’t understand it. Spencer wasn’t just your twin—he was your tether, your constant, the one person who had always known how to navigate the chaos of your lives.