“I told her you were sad,” Maliah shot back. “I was trying to help.”
Maliah and Mia were never just sisters. They were two halves of the same storm. Maliah was the thunder — loud, raw, and shaking the walls when she laughed. Mia was the lightning — quick, bright, and gone before you could blink.
“You told Mom about Cole,” Mia said, her voice shaking.
“The rip is just air. We can sew it back. Meet me at the treehouse.”
Then came the night of the bonfire.
It started small — a borrowed hoodie never returned, a canceled plan, a boy named Cole who told them both different things. Maliah felt Mia pulling away; Mia felt Maliah holding on too tight.
Maliah pulled a needle and thread from her jacket pocket. “We stitch.”