Something Like Elena のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

My sister looks amazing. She's smiling a lot, and I think it actually hurts but if there's one day she's allowed to overdo it, it's today. Her wedding day.I'm standing right next to her, maid of honor, watching her say "I do" to the man I love. The man I've loved since I was twelve and he was fourteen.I hope my smile looks genuine. I really do. Because I am happy for them. A lot. Like, bouncing-off-the-walls happy. And also... crushed. Totally wrecked, and maybe some of that is leaking through my eyes. God, I hope not. I promised myself I'd hold it together today. Didn't I already cry everything out?I messed up. Kept my feelings buried too long. Too shy. Too tangled in my own low self-esteem. I never thought Noah Sparks would like me back. He's been my best friend for years, and not once-not once-did I catch anything more than casual admiration in his hazel eyes. No extra long stares. No hugs that lingered a second too long. Nothing to give me hope or let me imagine he might feel t

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

Chapter 5At five years old, I start to realize I’m not like my twin sister. We look exactly the same. The same light brown hair, straight and smooth down our backs, the same almond-shaped eyes with soft amber pupils, the same smile, the same single dimple on one cheek, even the same height. Looking at Elena is like looking in a mirror. So I don’t understand why our parents treat us so differently. Mom adores Elena. She has pictures of her everywhere, on the fridge, on the bedside table in her room. When I ask why there aren’t any of me, she just shrugs and says, “ But you look exactly the same. How do you know that isn’t you? ” It’s supposed to be funny. A joke. But I’m five, not stupid. I know my smiles are never that wide, my stance never that light, never that carefree. “ I’m not in any of the pictures, ” I tell her, because I don’t know yet that my opinions don’t matter. Mom sighs, like I’m saying something ridiculous. “ Of course you are, Esmeray. What are you talking a

New Orleans is great, better than I ever imagined. I made two friends almost instantly, Helen and Ria. We’re all new to this vibrant city of art and noise and life. The streets hum louder during tourist season, and I get swept up in the rhythm of it, laughing, dating, breaking up, laughing again. Time slides by like honey. Before I know it, three years blur past like a dream.I finish my studies. Land a job teaching at one of the local high schools. I’m dating again. Life moves forward, fast and full.Over the years, Elena and I keep in touch. Sometimes I call. Sometimes she does. Our conversations stretch for hours, warm and winding, like we’re still in the same room.But I don’t make it in time for William’s birth.I have something to wrap up, just a quick thing, I tell myself. It ends up taking too long. By the time I’m free, it’s too late. Elena is furious. She doesn’t answer my calls for weeks. When she finally does, her voice is clipped, angry.“You should’ve been here,” she sai

The call came while I’m in the middle of class. My phone, tucked away in the teachers’ lounge to avoid distractions, is useless to me now. It’s the school’s comm system that crackles to life, delivering the message in that clipped, formal tone: “Mrs. Morales, please report to the principal’s office.” I run through every possible scenario as I gather my things. I’ve always followed the rules, never pushed boundaries. The principal has a reputation for being picky, so I make sure my earrings are modest, my clothes impeccable and modest, my conduct beyond reproach. What could she want now? But nothing prepares me for the sight that greets me when I step inside her office. Helen sits stiffly in front of the principal’s desk, her shoulders slightly hunched. When she turns, her eyes—so full of something deep and aching—hit me like a wave. Then, she’s on her feet, crossing the floor in a few urgent steps, wrapping me in a hug before I can process what’s happening. I blink, frozen for a be