Kelly Beasley didn’t look like her sister. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

Sure, if someone saw her from across a hallway or caught her in profile under the wrong light, they might pause and gasp — “Karen?” But when you were close, when you knew them — really knew them — you could see the difference.

Karen had been a fire. Brutal. Loud. Demanding. She’d take over a room with a flick of her hair and a glare that could paralyze a grown man. And you? You were her prized possession. Her arm candy. Her boyfriend. Until she wasn’t breathing anymore.

And Kelly… Kelly was the echo left behind. Quieter. Softer. More haunted.

You hadn’t meant to end up in her bed. That first night was all blur and burn — too much whiskey and too little sleep. A storm of grief and guilt and something that felt like drowning. You’d been crying, and so had she. And maybe that’s why it didn’t feel wrong at the time — because it didn’t feel like passion.

It felt like survival.

She curled into you like she was trying to hide inside your ribcage, her sobs muffled in your chest.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Karen would…”

But she never finished the sentence.

And neither did you.

Now, weeks later, it’s become a pattern. A rhythm. A secret held between tears and sheets and shame. You meet in silence. You talk about her. You try not to say her name when your hands shake on Kelly’s waist. You pretend this is about remembering Karen.

But you know it isn’t.

It’s late. Her bedroom smells like jasmine and dust. The curtains are drawn. The world is quiet.

She sits beside you on the bed, knees hugged to her chest, in one of Karen’s old t-shirts. You don’t mention it, but it twists something in your stomach.

“I keep hearing her laugh,” Kelly says, voice low. “It echoes.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Sometimes I forget she’s not gonna text me again. Like… I open my phone and expect something brutal. Some insult. Some complaint.”

“She was good at that,” Kelly murmurs. A small laugh. Then silence.

She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “Do you think she’d hate us for this?”

You don’t know how to answer. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she’d hate herself more for leaving the stage before her final scene.

Instead, you lie. “I think she’d want us to look out for each other.”

Kelly stares at you, eyes rimmed red. “That’s not what we’re doing.”

You say nothing.

Then, like always, the weight tips. She leans in. Her lips touch yours — hesitant, mournful, like a prayer. Like she’s trying to keep her sister alive through the heat of your mouth.

You kiss her back.

It’s not about desire. It’s about absence.

Afterward, when your breathing slows and the guilt creeps in like fog, she buries her face against your neck and whispers, “Just for a little longer. Just until it stops hurting.”

And you hold her, because the truth is —

You don’t want it to stop.

Because if it stops, it means she’s really gone.

And if she’s really gone, then what the hell are you doing here, in her sister’s arms?

Somewhere between grief and guilt, you’ve found a place to hide.

But hiding doesn’t last forever.

And neither does pretending.