Years had passed.
The twins were no longer the teenagers glued to each other in an apartment too small to breathe in. They were adults now or at least, that's what the world saw. Active, autonomous, each having carved out a place within the vast New York machinery.
They had left their first cramped two-room place for a much larger apartment: an open view over the rooftops, a living room where the light spread like water, two spacious bedrooms, an open kitchen where you could finally cook without bumping into each other. Everything suggested that it was time, for two twenty-six-year-old women, to separate, to live their own lives.
But it was never that simple.
Allia had never managed to take that step.
Not because she didn't want to…
But because she felt responsible for her sister.
Because Elia wasn't like anyone else.
Because she loved her in a way that was too deep, too rooted, too damaged.
Elia had started again.
Allia knew it by the way the air turned still some mornings.
By the way silence changed texture.
By the lack of messages, the lack of returns, the lack of explanations.
She knew.
That morning, the light frayed through the curtains as Allia opened her eyes. The apartment was calm. Almost too calm. The kind of calm that belongs not to places, but to the secrets they hold.
She reached out: the other side of the bed was cold.
Another night Elia hadn't come home.
She remained still for a few seconds, listening to the emptiness. She had learned to recognize these absences not the ones caused by work or nights out with friends. No, these were different.
An unpleasant weight settled on her chest.
Not quite fear.
Not yet.
Just that dull, old worry, almost accustomed to living there.
She pulled on a sweatshirt, dragged herself to the kitchen, and started the kettle. The water heated with a soft rumble that usually soothed her. Today, the sound felt distant.
Before even drinking her coffee, she grabbed her phone.
No messages.
Her fingers tightened around the mug.
She tried to convince herself:
They were adults.
They had their own routines.
Their own lives.
But Elia didn't obey those rules.
Elia was a phenomenon, a storm, an unpredictable wave.
And storms always leave traces behind.
Allia checked the front door. Locked. Silence. Nothing.
She returned to her desk and opened her laptop. Security reports, vulnerability analyses, audits that needed finishing. Usually, work grounded her gave her the illusion of controlling at least a piece of reality.
But today, the lines of code blurred together.
Her phone vibrated, making her jump.
Elia: Are you awake?
Allia's heart leapt.
Allia: Yes.
The reply arrived instantly, as if Elia had been waiting for her breath.
Elia: I'm coming.
Barely a second passed before someone knocked on the door.
Elia entered like a gust of wind.
Hair tied hastily, a strand stuck to her temple, wrinkled jeans, black hoodie… And on her shoes: dried dirt. Allia prayed it was only dirt.
"Were you asleep?" Elia asked as she closed the door.
"No… Why didn't you answer me last night?"
Elia shrugged, pulled off her hoodie, and placed it on a chaira simple gesture, yet in the apartment's hushed quiet, it felt like a territorial mark.
"I was busy."
Three words.
Three words that could mean anything.
Three words that, for years, had often meant the same thing.
"Busy with what?" Allia asked, her voice tight.
Elia slowly turned her head toward her. A soft smile curled her lips. It wasn't reassuring.
"Living, Allia. You should try it too."
Allia lowered her eyes, stung—wounded without knowing where or why. Elia wielded her words like scalpels: delicate, precise, cutting.
Then, without warning, Elia sat beside her and rested her head on Allia's shoulder. A tender, familiar gesture… and yet terribly disarming.
"I'm staying with you today," she murmured.
"But… don't you have class? Something planned?"
"That can wait. You can't."
The words struck harder than a slap.
Tender. Suffocating.
Like a chain placed gently around your neck.
They spent the day together.
They shopped, cooked, talked like before. Elia laughed sometimes—a clear, almost childlike laugh—and Allia let herself believe that maybe everything wasn't lost.
But something was wrong.
A tension barely visible, but constant.
As if Elia was searching, in every gesture Allia made, for a proof, a weakness, a betrayal.
It became obvious at the supermarket.
A young man approached.
"Excuse me… do you have the time?"
Allia smiled, ready to answer.
Elia stepped in front of her in a smooth, calculated motion.
She locked eyes with the boy.
He paled. Mumbled an apology. Stepped back. Almost ran away.
Allia stayed frozen.
"Why did you do that?" she asked later, on the landing.
Elia tilted her head, looking genuinely confused.
"Do what?"
"He just asked me the time, and… you looked…"
A smile slipped onto Elia's lips.
"Protective?"
That wasn't it.
Not at all.
But Allia didn't dare contradict her.
Elia moved closer—too close. Her scent, like damp night and restrained storm, enveloped Allia.
"You trust too easily," Elia whispered. "And that will be your downfall."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her sister's ear.
"Good thing I'm here."
Allia gathered her courage.
"Where were you coming from this morning?"
Elia's smile stiffened.
Just for a second.
Then she said:
"I'll tell you one day."
And she left.
No sound.
No shadow.
Allia remained alone in the hallway.
The apartment, suddenly too vast, seemed to breathe without her.