Océan’s house was about a ten-minute walk from the school. Just before we arrived, she confided in me.

  “My mom used to be a hairdresser,” she said. “But when my sister and I were in middle school, she became an alcoholic. After she divorced my dad, she quit her job and spent about a year in a treatment facility. She’s sober now, though, and slowly getting back to work.”

  “That must have been really hard—for you and your sister.”

  “Yeah. At the time, my sister was away at a boarding music school, so I stayed with my uncle’s family for about a year. It was… uncomfortable. My uncle and aunt were kind, but their son treated me like I didn’t belong. He kept picking on me.”

  “You should’ve punched him,” I said.

  “At first I put up with it. I mean, I’m a nice person, right?” She grinned. “But one day he broke my favorite pencil case. That was it. I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls. He colpsed and started crying like a little kid. Totally deserved it.”

  I burst out ughing, and Océan smiled too, looking almost relieved. It was the first time she’d ever told me about that part of her life.

  Her house was a small, two-story red-brick building tucked tightly among others like it. No one else was home. Her mother was at work, and her sister hadn’t come back from school yet.

  Music competition trophies lined the entryway. Océan had told me her twin sister was a flutist at a music school in the neighboring town. Judging by the sheer number of trophies, she had to be exceptionally talented. I found myself wanting to meet her. I was rarely curious about people, but something about this stirred my interest.

  The living room was dim, its yellow walls completely covered with bookshelves overflowing with books. Scattered around were dust-covered music boxes, a small globe, a broken metronome, a rabbit-shaped pendulum ornament, tarot cards—everything pced without any apparent order. It didn’t look like the shelves had been cleaned in ages.

  On the opposite wall hung a stopped cuckoo clock, and beside it, a strange mask that looked as if it had come from some distant isnd. Inside the gss cabinet beneath the TV were sewing tools kept in old cookie tins, lined up next to nesting dolls of various sizes. There was no sense of harmony anywhere in the room.

  Half-empty pstic bottles, cookie tins, and candy wrappers littered the floor. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and a deep, lived-in smell that made my throat tighten. Without asking, I flung the windows open.

  “Just like my sister,” Océan ughed. “She compins about the smell right away and starts cleaning the second things get messy. I don’t really care, though. Anyway, make yourself at home.”

  She didn’t scold me—just said that and disappeared into the kitchen. Taking her at her word, I sank onto the sofa. The worn checkered fabric was peeling, stuffing poking through in pces. On the rectangur wooden table sat a ceramic ashtray decorated with pying cards, several cigarette butts resting inside.

  Only then did doubt creep in. Was it really okay for someone like me to intrude on the lives of the three of them? Wouldn’t I just be in the way? Maybe I should have gone to Cire’s house from the beginning.

  About five minutes ter, Océan returned with a round silver tray holding two ptes of fn and two mugs of tea. The tea gave off the rich, toasted scent of Darjeeling.

  “Océan… are you sure it’s okay for me to stay over?” I asked. “I might just get in the way. Maybe I should go to Cire’s after all—”

  “It’s too te to worry about that now,” she said lightly. “I already texted my mom. Neither she nor my sister is the type to make a fuss. Stop overthinking and eat.”

  I lifted a spoonful of fn to my mouth. The smooth, gentle sweetness melted on my tongue, as if quietly untangling the knot of emotions inside me.

  “So,” Océan said, “what do you think your sister really thinks of you?”

  She had already finished her cheesecake tart and was sprawled on her back on the sofa, resting the tip of her spoon between her lips.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She never says the things that matter.”

  Ever since we were children, my sister had rarely shown her emotions—especially compared to me. Was it because she was the older one? Or had I somehow made her that way? The thought that it might be the tter felt uncomfortably arrogant.

  “Your sister sounds kind of cruel,” Océan said. “If she’s not interested, she should just say so. And if she loves you, she should say that too.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I said. “We’re sisters. And she’s always been very sensitive to how others see her… Maybe she’s thinking about a lot more things than I am.”

  “Like appearances?”

  “That might be part of it, but…”

  My sister had always been unusually aware of other people’s eyes. Even when we walked arm in arm through town, she would pull away the moment she thought someone we knew might see us. When I compined that there was nothing wrong with sisters linking arms, she would only fall silent.

  “I don’t really care about appearances,” Océan said. “So I don’t get your sister. I mean…” Her voice softened. “Having a beautiful little sister like you and feeling nothing at all—that’s what seems strange to me.”

  Her words trailed off. When I looked at her, she had turned her gaze away, faintly embarrassed. She did that sometimes.

  Once, at school, Océan’s childhood friend Alexis had jokingly told me that Océan might like me. Even after hearing that, I hadn’t felt the need to become conscious of her feelings. I didn’t want to start acting awkward or distant and risk ruining what we had.

  From the very beginning, Océan had always looked out for me—calling out to me when she noticed I was alone, quietly helping when I struggled. Without her, I might have ended up isoted in css. She helped me during stage rehearsals too, whispering my lines when I was about to forget them, buying me drinks when I felt unwell, discreetly telling teachers when I needed to rest.

  She was a good friend.

  And I wanted her to stay that way.