Selene's POV
Dinner was full of laughter—some light, some forced. The clatter of cutlery, the hum of background music, and the occasional inside joke made it feel like a scene out of a quiet family film. But I could sense it—something unspoken humming under the surface like static waiting to spark.
Mira smiled, but her eyes kept flicking toward Amara.
Amara barely spoke, picking at her food with the same quiet frustration she wore like perfume.
Antonio noticed too. I felt his hand rest against mine under the table—a silent I see it too.
The tension finally snapped when Mira mentioned an upcoming music internship.
"I was thinking we could do it together," Mira said lightly. "Like we used to."
Amara's fork dropped with a soft clang. "You're acting like everything's normal."
"Mara—" his mom started, but Amara cut her off.
"No. Let's not pretend. You left me behind, Mira. And now you show up wanting to play sisters again like nothing happened?"
Mira's face turned pale. "I didn't leave. You stopped answering. You..."
"You stopped trying," Amara whispered, standing up.
The room fell into silence.
I looked at Antonio. His jaw was tight. He stood as Amara walked out of the dining room and turned to Mira, who blinked back tears.
"I didn't know how to fix it," she murmured.
Later, in the quiet hush of the guest room, Antonio and I sat by the window, the lights of the garden flickering faintly outside. He hadn't said much after dinner—just held my hand, his thumb gently brushing over my skin.
"She used to braid Mira's hair every Sunday," he said suddenly. "They were like twins… and now it's like they don't know how to breathe near each other."
I rested my head on his chest. "They still love each other. But love's messy when it's hurt."
He exhaled. "I want to fix it."
"You don't have to fix everything, Antonio," I whispered. "Sometimes being there is enough."
He looked down at me, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "You always say the right thing."
"No," I smiled faintly, "I just say what you forget you already know."
The moonlight dripped in, bathing us in silver. His arms wrapped around me as we sat there, watching the quiet sky, both carrying our own pieces of broken stories—and somehow, building something whole between them.
The sun peeked through gauzy curtains as soft murmurs floated from downstairs. I rubbed my eyes, slipping out of bed and padding down the hall, drawn by the gentle clatter of mugs and something quieter—like the sound of hearts mending.
Mira and Amara were in the kitchen.
No shouting. No sharp silences.
Just the low hum of a kettle and two sisters sitting at the counter with tired eyes and tearstained cheeks. Mira held a steaming mug, fingers curled around it like a shield, while Amara stared at the rising steam, lost in thought.
Antonio stood by the archway, unnoticed, motioning for me to stay quiet. We both listened.
"I didn't mean to make you feel abandoned," Mira said, voice shaky. "I was drowning too, Mara. I just… didn't know how to call for help."
Amara blinked, then laughed bitterly. "You always looked like you had it together. I was the messy one."
"You were never messy. You were real. I just wore my fears better."
Amara turned to face her. "Do you even know why I was angry?"
Mira's hands stilled. "Not completely."
"It wasn't just the silence," Amara said quietly. "It was that when things got hard, I needed my sister—and you became unreachable. I kept hoping you'd show up. And you didn't."
Mira set down her mug. "I was ashamed. I thought I had to be strong for everyone, and I thought if I wasn't, you'd stop needing me."
A long pause.
Then Amara whispered, "I never stopped needing you."
That's when Mira reached out, her fingers trembling, and held her sister's hand. The silence that followed wasn't tense—it was full. Full of old wounds finally seeing light. Full of unsaid apologies stitched into silence.
Antonio let out a breath beside me, shoulders easing.
I stepped forward quietly and entered the room with a small smile. "Coffee for three?"
Mira laughed through her tears. "Please."
Antonio joined us, wrapping an arm around both his sisters' shoulders. It was the kind of moment that didn't need grand speeches or dramatic endings—just stillness, closeness, and the promise of trying again.
As we all sat around the kitchen island, sipping slowly, I thought of how healing sometimes looks exactly like this.
Not fireworks. Not confessions under rain.
Just quiet mornings, warm cups, and hands finding each other again.