The air was heavier than usual. Not just with summer's heat, but with memory.
The house creaked more often. The corners whispered. The hallway lights flickered, even when no one was near the switch.
Mira felt her everywhere. In the smell of old books. In the wind chimes outside their window. In the sudden quiet that fell after laughter.
Still, life kept inching forward.
Jay had been patient. Quietly orbiting Mira, waiting for her grief to soften.
Now, weeks later, he found her again—sitting under the jacaranda tree near the school's edge, where purple petals littered the ground like soft confetti.
"You always liked this spot," he said, slowly sitting beside her.
Mira glanced at him. "She liked it more."
"I know."
Silence.
"I miss her," Jay whispered, looking out at the golden sky.
"I miss her so much it hurts," Mira murmured.
Jay turned to her. "She was part of both of us."
Mira's lips trembled, but she didn't pull away when he reached out and brushed her hand with his fingers.
"She wouldn't want you to be alone forever," he said.
Mira looked down, tears in her eyes. "You don't know that."
He leaned closer. Gently. As if waiting for her to push him away.
"I know I should've said something earlier," he said. "But it was always the two of you. And I didn't want to break that. I just… I care about you, Mira."
Their eyes met.
And then—he kissed her. Soft. Hesitant.
But the moment shattered like glass.
A gust of cold wind sliced between them. So sharp, it knocked Jay backward slightly.
"What was—?"
Behind them, the air rippled.
Mira turned.
There she was.
Maya.
Standing beneath the tree, her face unreadable, but her eyes dark with emotion.
Mira stood up instantly. "Maya—wait—"
But Maya vanished, leaving only falling petals in her wake.
That night, everything changed.
Mira called out into the dark, pleading for Maya to come back. But her room stayed cold and silent.
Books fell from shelves. Mirrors cracked. A photo frame shattered without warning.
"Maya, stop!" Mira cried, sinking to the floor. "I didn't mean for it to happen! I don't even know how to move on!"
The cold deepened, but Maya didn't come.
At school, the tension wrapped around Mira like a second skin. She avoided Jay, her chest tight with guilt and confusion.
Then came the comic relief—blunt, loud, and in a suit three sizes too big.
Tobi.
The friend who never knew when to be serious, yet somehow always knew when someone needed laughter.
"You look like you've been chewing lemons," he said, sliding into the seat beside her during lunch.
Mira offered a half-smile. "Tobi, not now."
"Exactly now," he said. "You need a break. Come on, we're having open mic night at the cafe. I'm telling jokes that are so bad they might bring Maya back just to slap me."
Mira almost laughed. Almost.
But later that night, she went.
And there she saw him—Tobi—fumbling through a poem about socks that never matched and how they reminded him of love.
The girl who laughed hardest was new. Glasses, wild curls, and a laugh like a chime.
Her name was Zina, and she gave Tobi her number before she even ordered coffee.
"I think she might be my soulmate," Tobi whispered to Mira, eyes wide.
"For real?" Mira teased.
He smiled. "Or at least someone who'll laugh at my jokes. That's close enough."
Back home, the tension grew again.
Mira walked in on her parents packing boxes.
"What are you doing?" she asked, heart stopping.
"We've decided," her mother said softly. "It's time to leave this place. Too many memories. Too much pain."
"You can't." Mira's voice was sharp.
"Mira—"
"No! You can't leave her here! This is her home. Our home!"
"She's not—" her father began, but Mira cut him off.
"She's still here."
Silence.
Her mother slowly sat on the bed, tired. "We know, baby. But it's killing us. Every hallway reminds us of what we lost."
"I'm what's left," Mira said, trembling. "Please. I need to stay."
They looked at her. Then at each other.
Then they unpacked the boxes.
That night, as the wind picked up and the lights dimmed, Mira stood in the backyard, under the same tree where Maya had appeared.
"I know you're angry," she whispered. "But I can't keep guessing what you want."
No answer.
"You think I wanted this? That I chose to keep living without you? Every smile feels like betrayal. Every step forward feels like leaving you behind."
A soft wind brushed her hair back.
Then Maya stepped from the shadows.
"I don't want to be forgotten," she said quietly.
"You never could be."
Maya looked at her, eyes deep and wet like the sea.
"I see you with him," she said.
Mira lowered her gaze.
"I'm not ready to let go," Maya added. "Not of you. Not of this world."
"I don't want to lose you again," Mira admitted. "Even if you're angry. Even if you're a ghost. I need you."
Maya moved closer, her form clearer than ever.
"I'm watching," she said softly. "Always. But don't expect me to be happy about it all."
"I won't."
They stood under the stars, two sisters separated by life and death, bound still by something stronger.