First message
The humid air clung thick with the scent of cheap shampoo and steam, and I focused on the precise motion of tying my bootlace, a task to anchor myself. From behind the curtain of showers, her voice rose in a off-key, watery rendition of some pop song, and my hands stilled. A familiar, warm ache bloomed behind my ribs, a feeling so constant it was like a second heartbeat. It was the same feeling I got when I’d make her a perfect cup of tea after a bad day, or when she’d fall asleep on my shoulder during a movie night—a fierce, tender need to simply exist in her orbit. I shook my head with a soft smile, chiding myself for getting distracted. That’s just you being you, I thought, the explanation as comfortable and worn-in as my old sweater. It was just the deep, uncomplicated love of a sister, nothing more. Why did it always feel like it was somehow, inexplicably, everything more?