Chapter 3

Elena changes her dress with my help, both of us bent over sequins and safety pins and giggles that come a little too easy. She looks stunning, glittering velvet wrapped around her, making her shine bright like stars 

She smiles when she is ushered in, takes her seat beside Noah where she belongs. 

The MC gushes about how beautiful the night is, introduces our parents as if no one in the room has ever met them. My mom and Noah’s mom smile at each other like they haven’t spent the past year trading polite venom and passive-aggressive digs over table linen. I watch it all with my hands folded neatly in my lap. 

Peter gives his speech. It’s charming, funny, just tipsy enough to get away with it. The room laughs. Cheers. The cake is cut. My face hurts from holding a smile. I keep counting minutes. Counting until it is over. 

Then comes the dancing. 

I dance with Peter. He moves with an infectious energy, the kind that demands attention in a dimly lit room. He laughs often, holds my waist like he’s done it a million times, and I shift slightly, concealing my discomfort. I don’t hate Peter. He’s kind. He’s fun. But I know this won’t work, and I won’t let him hold onto something that isn’t there. I’ll let him down easy. 

Later, I dance with Elena. She grabs my hand and we spin like we are five again, like nothing has changed. Across the room, Noah dances with our mom, making her beam and even giggle. She thinks Noah is the perfect son-in-law. She’s probably right. I’ve never seen her look at Dad that way. 

“You okay?” Elena asks, breathless, eyes shining. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re married.” 

We squeeze hands, squeal like teenagers. I smile like it is carved into me. “Now you’re Mrs. Spark.” 

“I’m keeping my name,” she grins. “It’s Mrs. Elena Morales Spark.” 

She squeals again, and God, her joy is infectious. For a second, I feel lighter. Maybe this isn’t my happy ending. But everyone else is happy. That has to be enough. 

Right? 

My eyes betray me. They find Noah laughing now, twirling his mother like she is the bride. 

“You’re so lucky, Elena,” I say. 

She turns, radiant, mischief dancing in her smile. “He’s the lucky one.” 

We both laugh. For her, it is the best day of her life. The one she’ll remember forever. 

For me? It is just the end of a long, aching day. And I’m glad it is finally over. 

I wave with the rest as the bride and groom pull away, glittering in the headlights, everyone shouting blessings into the night. Happy marriage. Beautiful couple. Perfect day. 

I whisper the words like a spell, then let them die on my lips. 

Peter catches me just before I reach the car. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. 

I smile. Nod. He’s offered to drive me, but I tell him I’m going with my parents. He doesn’t push. He’s sweet. Charming. 

But my heart doesn’t pull toward him. 

Just like Noah’s never pulls toward me. 

I guess we don’t get to choose who we love. 

As I slide into the backseat, Mom doesn’t wait. “Why didn’t you go with Peter? I can tell he likes you. Don’t you like him?” A beat. She doesn’t wait for the answer. “I mean, what’s not to like? He’s a great guy. You should give him a chance. Look at Elena, married after a year. Don’t waste time being picky.” 

I press my forehead to the window. Cold glass. Dark streets flying past. I close my eyes. And tune her out. It’s what I always do. Survival skill. If I didn’t know how to leave the room while sitting in it, I would’ve lost my mind years ago. 

“Are you alright back there, sweetheart?” Dad’s voice drifts through the car, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror. 

“I’m fine,” I say, too quick, too flat. 

Mom finds her next target. “Did you drink?” 

I exhale through my nose. I have never touched alcohol in my life, but ever since high school, ever since she found that pack of beer Elena’s boyfriend smuggled in, I’ve been branded guilty. Elena begged me not to tell the truth, and now, according to Mom, six cans of beer mean nothing to me. 

“You are not an alcoholic, Esmeray.” 

“I didn’t drink, Mom. I’m just tired.” 

Dad steps in, his voice neutral. “It was a stressful day.” 

“It was stressful for all of us,” Mom counters, brushing past his words like they don’t matter. “You should drink more, maybe you wouldn’t be so uptight.” 

A groan escapes me before I can swallow it, frustration curling inside like a growing flame. I run my fingers through my hair, only to meet resistance, pins, stiff and unforgiving. A fresh wave of irritation rolls through me. “Can you drop me here, Dad? I need to pick something up.” I just want to walk. To breathe. 

“What are you picking up?” Mom huffs, skeptical. “It’s late already. Don’t stop, honey, let’s just go home. You shouldn’t snack so much at night, Esmeray. You know it’s not good for your health.” 

I fold. Like always. Stuff the frustration down, smooth out the edges, pretend it’s not there. Letting it loose would be a mistake. No one would understand. No one ever does. 

To my mother, I am a trial, a test she endures daily, one she survives only because of Elena’s existence. It takes less than a minute before the conversation shifts back to her, before my presence fades into the background. 

I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.It’s the only way to disappear. 

I don’t sleep that night. 

Elena’s room, directly across from mine, is still open from this morning, when we rushed out in a whirlwind of bags and plans. Somehow, miraculously, we manage to take everything. 

After getting home, after shutting my door against my mother’s relentless words, I finally strip the pins from my hair, letting the short reddish-brown strands tumble free. Mechanically, I pull them back into a small, messy ponytail. Routine. Familiarity. I brush my teeth, catch sight of my eyes in the mirror. They are slightly red, irritated, tired in a way that goes beyond exhaustion. I blink, rinse my mouth, step into the shower. 

Afterward, hunger nudges at me, but before slipping into the hallway, I check. My mother lurks sometimes, always prepared for another lecture. 

That’s when I notice Elena’s door open, chaotic. 

She’s gone, of course. Sleeping next to Noah. No, celebrating their honeymoon night.  With money tight after the wedding, they didn’t plan to go anywhere, they’re staying at Noah’s place. Just two streets down. Together. Doing wedded couple things. 

Don’t think about it, Ray. Just don’t. 

I move to close her door, but then I see them. The pictures. 

Elena loves traveling, loves capturing moments, memories, light frozen in film. And as I scan the collection covering her wall, I notice something. My face. Everywhere. More than I expect. 

I never like traveling. Rooted should be my middle name. But somehow, she has me up there, woven into her adventures, into her happiest moments. 

She always thinks of me. Always. She is my twin, and I should forget Noah. I should accept their life together. No, more than that. 

I should be happy for them. 

Standing there, surrounded by fragments of her world, I make the decision. Nothing will change between the three of us. Elena, Noah, me. My twin. My best friend. 

From tonight onward, that is all Noah will ever be to me. 

I shut her door with that conviction. 

And I go to bed. 

I do not sleep.