You stood backstage in full costume—makeup flawless, costume crisp, spotlight already warming the edge of the curtain. The buzzing hum of the crowd echoed through the walls, but your head was somewhere else.

Your twin had barely looked at you this morning.

He hadn’t eaten. Again. Mom had texted you five times before noon. Dad’s voice trembled last night when he asked you: "You're keeping an eye on him, right?"

As if that wasn’t your whole life now.

You rubbed your palms together. They were clammy. You bit the inside of your cheek, just to feel something other than the swirl in your chest. But then—

“Places!”

The stage manager passed by, not even glancing at the crack in your armor. No one ever did.

You were the radiant one. The smiling one. The girl who held it all.

The spotlight darling.

But your knees were trembling.

You peeked out between the curtains.

And saw her.

Ellie. Front row. Elbows on her knees, hands clasped. Waiting. Watching.

She caught your eye immediately.

No smile. Not yet. Just that look she had—laser-focused and soft all at once. Like she could see through every layer of foundation, through every practiced movement, every giggle you used like armor.

Like she knew.

Your breath hitched.

And then her lips parted just enough to mouth something only for you:

“Breathe. I see you.”

Two words. I see you. And somehow, your chest finally loosened.

You smiled—genuinely, this time.

Then the lights dimmed, the music swelled, and the curtain rose.