High school changed things.
It wasn't sudden—it never is. It was in the little things, the quiet spaces between words. The way Mira started replying with silence instead of sarcasm. The way Maya stopped asking questions she already knew wouldn't be answered.
They still looked the same. Still wore matching uniforms, still shared the same hallway stares from people who couldn't tell them apart. But inside? Something was shifting.
Maya had joined the student council. Not because she loved meetings, but because she liked structure. She liked helping. Organizing. Being part of something that mattered.
Mira, on the other hand, had joined nothing.
She hung around the art room instead, sketching moody faces and chaotic shapes in charcoal. No one knew what they meant—not even her—but she liked the way the lines bled into each other. Like thoughts too messy to speak out loud.
"You can't keep hiding in here," Maya said one afternoon, finding her behind the ceramics shelf.
Mira smirked. "You found me."
"Because I know you."
"I'm not hiding," Mira said, even though they both knew she was.
Maya sat beside her, brushing a streak of charcoal from her cheek. "Why don't you come to the student rally next week? You might actually like it."
Mira shrugged. "Not really my scene."
"You can't just opt out of life."
"Says who?"
Maya sighed, but said nothing. This was becoming routine—her reaching, Mira retreating.
At home, the tension was growing too.
Their father had started coming home late, claiming work, but their mother said nothing. She only stared at the clock longer each night.
One evening, as Maya helped clean the dishes, their mother spoke without looking up. "Is Mira doing okay at school?"
"She's fine," Maya said.
"You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"
Maya hesitated. "She's just… finding her way."
Their mother nodded slowly, rinsing a plate. "I worry about her."
"I do too," Maya whispered.
In their shared room, Mira blasted music while changing into ripped jeans and a hoodie.
"Where are you going?" Maya asked, looking up from her homework.
"Out."
"With who?"
"Just people."
"What people?"
Mira rolled her eyes. "Relax. I'm not doing drugs."
"That's not the point."
"Oh, I know the point. The point is, you don't trust me unless I'm doing what you would do."
"That's not fair—"
"No, what's not fair is living in your shadow, Maya."
Maya blinked, stunned. "I never asked you to—"
"Yeah, but it's always there. You with your perfect grades, your perfect smile, your perfect everything."
"I'm not perfect, Mira."
Mira zipped her jacket. "Well, maybe stop pretending to be."
And just like that, she was gone.
Maya sat frozen, her chest aching in a way she didn't have words for. It wasn't the first time they argued, but it felt different. Heavier.
Like something important had cracked.
Later that night, Mira returned quietly, slipping into bed without saying a word.
Maya lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to her sister's soft breathing.
"I don't try to be perfect," she whispered into the dark.
Mira didn't respond. But Maya didn't think she was asleep.
The next morning was unusually quiet. They dressed without talking, ate breakfast in silence, and walked to school side by side—yet oceans apart.
During lunch, Maya sat with the council, eyes drifting across the cafeteria to where Mira leaned against the wall, laughing with a group of seniors Maya didn't recognize.
One of the boys passed Mira a soda and leaned in too close. She laughed and shoved him playfully, but something in her smile looked forced.
Maya frowned. She didn't like the way he looked at her sister. She didn't like how distant Mira seemed from the girl she used to be.
That night, as they lay in their bunks, Maya reached down from the top bunk and let her fingers dangle beside Mira's bed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Mira's hand reached up and curled around hers.
No words. Just warmth.
Even in silence, the bond remained.
One rainy Sunday, they visited their grandmother's house, a tiny blue cottage that smelled like papaya soap and old books.
While their parents talked in the kitchen, the girls wandered into the attic.
"Remember this?" Mira held up a frayed teddy bear with one ear missing.
"Mr. Wobble," Maya smiled.
They laughed, real and unguarded for the first time in weeks.
Then Mira pulled out a small, locked box from behind an old chest. Inside were bracelets they had made when they were nine—beaded, faded, ugly as sin.
But priceless.
"I forgot about these," Mira said, slipping hers on.
Maya took hers too. It barely fit, but she didn't care.
They didn't say it out loud, but both girls were thinking the same thing:
No matter how far apart they drifted, they started together. And some roots run too deep to pull out.