She came in the morning.
That alone told me she hadn't slept.
Her eyes were swollen. Her makeup imperfect. Her posture—once flawless—was slouched, fragile, almost unfamiliar.
She was dressed like a victim.
That was deliberate.
—
She didn't knock.
She opened the door slowly, as if afraid I might disappear if she moved too fast.
"I just want to talk," she said.
I didn't look up.
"Sit," I replied.
She obeyed immediately.
That was new.
—
"I never meant for it to go this far," she whispered. "You know that."
I finally raised my eyes.
"You meant for it to go far enough that I disappeared," I said calmly.
Her lips trembled. Tears spilled over.
"I was scared," she said. "You were always stronger. People always looked at you first."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
—
"So you betrayed me," I said softly. "Because you were afraid of being second."
She shook her head violently. "No. I just… I wanted what you had."
"And when I lost everything," I continued, "you took it. And didn't look back."
She cried harder.
"I thought you were weak," she admitted. "I thought you wouldn't survive."
There it was.
The same belief.
Different mouth.
—
She reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
"Please," she said. "We're sisters."
That word used to mean something.
Now it was just sound.
"You stopped being my sister," I said quietly, "the moment you smiled while I was breaking."
—
"I'll confess," she said desperately. "I'll tell them everything. I'll fix this."
I leaned back in my chair.
"No," I said.
She froze.
"No?" she repeated, disbelief cracking through her tears.
"You don't get redemption," I said calmly. "You get consequences."
—
She fell to her knees too.
I didn't move.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I swear I am."
I believed her.
And it didn't matter.
—
"Sorry doesn't rebuild a life," I said. "It doesn't erase humiliation. And it doesn't undo betrayal."
She looked up at me, eyes wild.
"What will happen to me?" she whispered.
I stood.
Walked to the window.
Looked out at the city that had once swallowed me whole.
"You'll live," I said. "Knowing everyone knows who you really are."
That was the punishment.
—
When she was escorted out, she screamed my name.
I didn't turn around.
—
Once, I would've broken for her.
This time—
I closed the door.
—