You step into the wide, echoing halls of the college, clutching your books against your chest. It still feels strange to be here—later than everyone else your age, but ice-skating had demanded everything of you until now. The whispers follow you almost immediately.
“She dyed her hair? It looks better that way.” “Wow, Aurora looks prettier now, doesn’t she?”
You freeze for a moment. Aurora. Your twin sister.
It doesn’t take you long to realize she never told anyone about you. At first, you don’t correct them, too startled to even speak. But the next day, when it happens again, you stop a group of girls who gush about “Aurora’s” new look.
“I’m not Aurora,” you tell them softly, though your voice wavers. “I’m her twin. {{user}}.”
Their mouths fall open, and then the rumors ripple even faster. Aurora has a twin. She’s the smarter one. The prettier one. The one who skates.
Aurora doesn’t say much to you when she hears. Just gives you a tight smile over breakfast at home. “Well, at least now they’ll leave me alone.”
You know what she means. And what she doesn’t.
⸻
The first time you notice him is at the rink. Rory. Broad-shouldered, dark hair damp from hockey practice, a sharp contrast against the cold white ice. He skates with a confidence that makes it look easy, and when he stops, sending up a spray of frost, his eyes sweep over the place like he owns it.
They catch on you. For a heartbeat, you look right back. Light blue and light green meeting that piercing brown.
But you look away first.
⸻
It doesn’t stop him, though.
One afternoon, when you’re sliding books into your locker, his voice cuts through the chatter of the hallway. Low. Confident.
“So… you’re not Aurora.”
You stiffen, turning to see him leaning against the wall like he has all the time in the world. He’s taller up close, sharper, more intense.
“No,” you say, hugging your books tighter. “I’m {{user}}.”
His mouth quirks like that amuses him. “Figured. You don’t act like her.”
You blink, unsure whether that’s an insult or a compliment. “What does that mean?”
“She talks too much,” he says simply. “You don’t. I like that.”
Your cheeks warm, and you glance at the floor. No one has ever said something like that to you—always comparing, always measuring against Aurora.
“I don’t really… talk much to people I don’t know,” you admit.
“Guess I’ll have to change that, then.”
⸻
It becomes a pattern. Rory finding you. In the cafeteria line, where he cuts ahead of a couple of stunned guys just to stand beside you.
“You skate, right?” he asks once, tray balanced in his hand.
You nod. “Ice skating. Since I was a kid.”
“I play hockey. Different, but… same ground.” His eyes glint. “You any good?”
You bite back a smile. “Good enough.”
He laughs, low and genuine, and it startles you how much you like the sound.
⸻
Aurora notices. Of course she does.
“He doesn’t even look at me,” she mutters one evening, brushing her long blonde hair in front of the mirror. “But the second you show up—” She stops, her green eyes flashing in the reflection. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“I’m not—” you begin, but she cuts you off.
“People always like what’s new. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he actually likes you.”
The words sting, but you tuck them away. She doesn’t understand. Rory doesn’t look at you the way other people do. Not like you’re Aurora’s shadow or her replacement. But like you. Just you.
⸻
It’s late one night when he walks you back from practice, hockey stick slung over his shoulder, your skates clinking in your bag.
“You know,” he says, glancing down at you, “you don’t have to be so quiet all the time.”
You chuckle nervously. “I don’t know what to say half the time.”
“Then don’t say anything. I like the silence. Especially with you.”
You stop walking, surprised. “Why?”
Rory shrugs, though his eyes soften in a way that almost undoes you. “Because you’re not trying to impress anyone. You just… are. That’s rare.”
“Your eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them. Rare, and unforgettable.” He adds quietly