(Lizzy's POV)
The call from home came on a Wednesday evening, just as the sky outside my window was turning that soft, bruised purple that always made me feel exposed.
I stared at my phone for a long moment before answering.
"Hello?"
My mother's voice filled the room warm, familiar, and layered with expectations I hadn't agreed to carry. She asked about school, about my grades, about whether I was eating properly. Her questions moved in careful circles, never touching anything real.
I answered the way I always did. Fine. Good. Busy.
When she asked to speak to Funmi, my chest tightened.
"She's in the shower," I lied gently. "Can I tell her you called?"
There was a pause. Not long, but heavy enough to settle into my bones.
"Tell her to call me back," my mother said. "She knows why."
After the call ended, I sat still for a long time, phone resting face-down on my bed like it might burn me if I touched it again.
Funmi came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her hair damp and curled at the ends. She took one look at my face and sighed.
"They called, didn't they."
I nodded. "She wants you to call back."
Funmi closed her eyes briefly. Just a second. But I saw it the weariness, the quiet resignation.
"I'll do it later," she said.
Later meant never, or at least not tonight. We both knew that.
We didn't talk much after that. We shared dinner in silence, the clink of forks against plates filling the space where words should have gone. The quiet between us wasn't angry. It was careful. Fragile.
That night, I lay awake thinking about how strange healing could be.
I was learning how to speak, how to create, how to take up space again. But Funmi she had always been speaking for both of us. Carrying the weight. Translating pain into something manageable for the rest of the family.
I wondered when she'd last asked herself what she wanted.
The next afternoon, I found her in the library, surrounded by notebooks and highlighted pages. She looked tired in a way sleep couldn't fix.
"Funmi," I said softly.
She looked up. "Yeah?"
"I know you don't like talking about it," I began, choosing each word carefully. "But… you don't always have to be the strong one."
She gave a small smile. "Someone has to be."
"I can be strong too," I said. "I'm trying."
That made her pause.
She studied me for a long moment, like she was seeing me clearly for the first time in a while not as the sister who needed protecting, but as someone becoming whole in her own right.
"I know," she said finally. "I just forget sometimes."
Later, when I met Ben outside the art building, the wind tugged at my jacket and the world felt unsteady again.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I think so," I said. And for once, it wasn't a lie. "I'm learning that being okay doesn't mean everything is settled."
He nodded. "It just means you're still moving."
That night, I painted until my hands ached. Two figures stood on the canvas close, but not quite touching. Between them was space. Not distance. Just room to breathe.
I realized then that love didn't disappear when things changed.
Sometimes, it just learned how to exist differently.
And maybe that was its own kind of mercy.