I write in my notebook that night: I saw her. She said she’s happy and she meant it. I’m glad.

  Then below that: I also cried for an hour in the bathroom so.

  Both things are true.

  The friendship with Lilia continues. Deepens, actually. She becomes the person I call when something happens, the one I text at midnight, the one who saves me food when she cooks too much. I proofread her essays. We watch terrible movies on purpose and rate them out of ten.

  It is the best friendship I have ever had.

  It is also built on something I’m not saying, and that gap compounds a little more every single day.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I try to leave in November. I start responding slower. I tell myself I’ll let it go quiet.

  Lilia texts: hey, is everything okay? you’ve been weird.

  I stare at the message.

  I’m your sister, I think. I’ve known for four months and you have no idea.

  I type back: Sorry, just stressed. Coffee this week?

  She sends a time and a place and three exclamation marks.

  I can’t do it. Every time I try to go, Lilia does something so specifically, accidentally kind that I can’t follow through. Last week she showed up with soup when I mentioned I had a cold. Didn’t ask. Just showed up.

  Where did she learn that.

  I know where she learned that.

  I write in my notebook: I have a sister I can’t claim. I have a mother I can’t reach. I have a friend who is both of those things at once and I’m the only one who knows it.

  I look at what I wrote.

  I’m so tired of being the only one who knows things.