It started out like any normal afternoon in your Calgary home—except normal never lasted long when you and Tate were involved.

You’d been racing up the stairs, socks sliding on the polished wood, chasing the last crumbs of adrenaline from a dumb TikTok dance attempt you’d tried (and failed) to master in the living room. Tate’s bedroom door was cracked open, soft strumming coming from inside. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair in a messy bun, guitar balanced in her lap. Her brows were furrowed, lips moving silently as she tested out lyrics.

You didn’t mean to interrupt. Honestly, you only meant to grab your phone charger from her desk, the one she’d stolen earlier.

But fate had other plans.

As you pushed the door open and padded inside, your socked foot caught on the edge of her rug. You stumbled forward with a startled yelp, arms flailing like a cartoon character mid-slip. In that instant, everything slowed down—the thud of your heartbeat in your ears, the horrified widening of Tate’s eyes, the gleam of polished wood just inches from your fall.

“Wait—NO!” Tate shouted.

Too late.

You landed chest-first onto her guitar with a sickening CRACK, the sound slicing through the room louder than any song she’d ever played. The strings twanged violently beneath your weight, snapping one after another like gunshots.

You froze, sprawled awkwardly across the bed, palms pressed into the splintering frame of what was once her pride and joy. The silence that followed was deafening.

“Oh. My. God.” Tate’s voice was flat, like the moment before a volcano erupts. She set her hands on her head, staring at the broken instrument in horror. “You—you—you did NOT just—”

You scrambled upright, clutching the snapped neck of the guitar like you could somehow press it back into place. “I—I didn’t mean to! I tripped! Tate, I swear!”

“You fell into my GUITAR?!” she screeched, shooting up from the bed. “Who even does that?!”

“I didn’t plan it!” you protested, cheeks burning. “What do you think I did, wake up this morning like, ‘Hm, today’s a great day to DESTROY my twin’s most prized possession?’”

Tate threw her hands in the air, pacing the room like she couldn’t keep the fury contained in one spot. “That guitar was with me through EVERYTHING! Writing my first songs, open mics, recording covers! And now it looks like—like—” She pointed at the fractured body lying limp on her blanket. “—like roadkill!”

You winced. “Okay, ouch, but… I’ll buy you a new one?”

Tate whirled around, eyes blazing. “You think it’s about the MONEY? It’s not just wood and strings, {{user}}, it’s—it’s memories. It’s my safe space. And you—you fell on it like a clumsy giraffe!”

That one stung. “Okay, rude. But also accurate,” you muttered under your breath.

Her glare sharpened. “You’re lucky we share DNA, or else I would’ve—” She broke off with a frustrated groan, dragging her hands down her face. “Ughhh, I can’t even look at you right now.”

Guilt twisted in your stomach as you stared down at the broken guitar. It wasn’t just an object—it was a piece of her, her sanctuary when things got overwhelming, the one constant she always leaned on.

And you’d crushed it. Literally.

“Hey,” you said softly after a moment, stepping closer. “I know I can’t fix that one. But… I’ll make it up to you. I don’t know how yet, but I will. Promise.”

Tate’s shoulders tensed, and for a second you thought she’d snap again. But instead, she sighed heavily, collapsing back onto her bed. “You better, {{user}}. Because right now, I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry.”

You sat beside her gingerly, nudging her shoulder with yours. “Maybe both?”

Her lips twitched despite herself, though she quickly turned away to hide it. “Shut up.”

And there the two of you sat, side by side, staring mournfully at the broken guitar—like witnesses to a crime scene only siblings could understand.