The hum of the heating vents was the only real sound in the house, aside from the soft ticking of the hallway clock and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards settling. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, the kind of day where time seemed to stretch and sag, refusing to move forward.
Harper stood in the kitchen, arms crossed as she waited for the toaster to pop. She hadn't planned on staying home today. It had just... happened. Aura hadn't gotten up. Again. No sound from her room. No footsteps. No text. And Harper knew, deep in her gut, that today wasn't a day she could leave her little sister alone.
She sighed and tapped her fingers against the counter, glancing over at the butter dish like it had personally offended her. She hated the way this house got quiet when things weren't okay. The way the silence wrapped around them both like cotton — soft, suffocating.
The toast popped up, golden brown. Harper didn't even hesitate — she cut it in half. Not diagonally, like their mom used to do when they were little, but straight across. Clean and simple. She buttered just one half, adding the tiniest smear of strawberry jam. Not too sweet. Not too much. Just... enough.
Because Aura wouldn't want more than that.
Harper carefully placed it on a small plate, then poured a glass of water — not juice, nothing with sugar. Aura had gotten weird about sugar lately.
She carried the plate into the living room, where Aura was still curled on the couch under the soft fleece blanket with the faded sunflowers. Her face was pale, and there were deep smudges under her eyes like she hadn't slept properly in days. Her arms were wrapped tight around a throw pillow like it was keeping her together.
Harper didn't say anything. She just set the plate and glass down on the coffee table, then sank down onto the carpeted floor beside her sister. Her legs folded underneath her, spine leaning gently against the edge of the couch.
Aura blinked slowly, eyes flitting from Harper to the toast.
"I won't eat it." she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"I know." Harper said simply. "That's why it's just half. I'm eating the other half.."
Aura's eyes welled up immediately — not with gratitude, but with shame. Her hand clutched the pillow harder. "I'm sorry."
Harper turned her head toward her, resting her chin on the couch cushion. "You don't need to be sorry for anything."
"I'm wasting your time."
"I've wasted whole days binge-watching Survivor for no reason. This doesn't even rank."
Aura let out a small, sniffling laugh, but she still didn't reach for the toast.
Harper let it sit. She didn't push. Instead, she rested her hand lightly on Aura's arm, thumb brushing against the soft fabric of her sleeve.
"You used to love toast.." Harper murmured, her voice soft and low. "Remember? You'd make faces in the jam. Smiley ones. And then lick it off before even taking a bite."
"I don't know what happened to me." Aura said after a long pause, her voice breaking. "I feel like I'm not even a person anymore."
"You're still you." Harper said. "Just hurting. People think those are different things, but they're not."
Aura turned her head and looked at Harper, really looked at her — the messy ponytail, the flannel shirt with toast crumbs on the sleeve, the usual Harper expression of tired defiance twisted now into something softer. Protective.
Harper cleared her throat. "I stayed home 'cause I figured if anyone's gonna stare at you all day, it might as well be someone who loves you."
Aura let out a long breath. "You don't even like being here."
"I don't like school either." Harper chuckled. "But I hate the idea of you lying here alone even more."
Aura didn't respond for a while. Her hand reached slowly, hesitantly, for the toast. She didn't pick it up — just touched it. Like the idea of eating was still too big, but the idea of not eating was worse.
Harper pretended not to notice. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, speaking casually now, like they were just talking about the weather.
"You don't have to get better all at once. I don't expect that. But you do have to keep showing up. Even just like this."
"I don't know if I can go back to school.." Aura said after a moment. "Everyone knows, don't they?"
"Then don't go back yet." Harper replied. "Stay home another day. Stay a week. Stay until you feel strong enough to walk through those doors like the badass you are. Who gives a shit what people know? They're not in your body."
Aura smiled faintly, though her eyes were still wet. "You're kind of a softie, you know."
Harper groaned. "Don't tell anyone. Seriously. I have a reputation."
"I mean it."
Harper looked up at her, her voice quieter. "Yeah. I mean it too."
They sat like that for a long time — Aura with the untouched toast and Harper with her silent, stubborn watchfulness. And though no one said it, something shifted between them: not a cure, not a solution, but something honest. Something safe.
Later, when Harper went to heat up some soup, Aura ate two bites of the toast. Not because she wanted to. Not because she was hungry. But because Harper had cut it in half. Because Harper had stayed.
And somehow, that made it possible.
The hour had that strange quiet of late afternoon—where everything seemed too still, too fragile, as if even the air knew not to move too quickly.
Aura was curled up on the sofa, her head nestled into a threadbare cushion, her fingers twitching faintly beneath the familiar weight of her patchwork blanket. Her skin looked pale in the light. Her aura, once a bright ribbon of blue and violet, shimmered now as a ghost of color—barely there, like breath on glass.
Harper sat in the old armchair across from her, spine stiff, legs folded up beneath her as she held a book open on her lap. She wasn't reading. She hadn't turned a page in nearly half an hour. Her eyes stayed on Aura. Counting breaths. Watching for something she wouldn't name aloud.
The door opened with a soft clunk and the metallic rattle of keys. Harper didn't look up.
She didn't need to.
"Hey." came Harriet's voice, tentative and falsely light, the way someone might speak to a wild animal they weren't sure wouldn't bite. "Is she asleep?"
Harper's jaw tensed. "What does it look like?"
"I meant—" Harriet hesitated, closing the door more quietly this time, "is she doing okay?"
Harper closed her book with a quiet snap and slowly turned to look at her sister. "You haven't been here all day. You haven't seen how thin she's gotten. How quiet she is. So no, Harriet. She's not okay."
Harriet took a slow step forward, her bag still slung over one shoulder, the corners of her coat brushing her thighs like they didn't know what to do with her either.
Harper scoffed, rising from the chair. "You thought now was a good time? After what you pulled at Thanksgiving?"
"I want to apologise."
Harper stared at her, then gave a hollow laugh. "For what? Outing me in front of the entire family? Showing them a picture you weren't supposed to have?"
"I didn't mean to find it.." Harriet said quickly. "It was under your pillow. I was putting your laundry away—"
"You were snooping." Harper cut in, her voice sharp, shaking with fury she'd been holding in for weeks. "You went through my personal things. That picture wasn't lying out in the open, Harriet—it was under my goddamn pillow. It wasn't yours to find. It definitely wasn't yours to share."
Harriet's expression twisted with regret. "I didn't mean to—Harper, I swear—I was just angry. You told everyone about Scott. You blindsided me. You made me look like an idiot in front of the whole family—"
Harper blinked, stunned. "You made yourself look like an idiot. You were dating a cheating bastard and pretending everything was perfect. I told the truth. For once. And instead of being mad at him, you went through my stuff and found the only photo I had of Josie and me and decided to use it like... like some kind of weapon."
"I didn't mean to weaponize it—"
"But you did!" Harper's voice cracked. "That picture meant something. That was the first time I liked someone and didn't feel scared afterward. The first time I let someone see me. And you paraded it around like a joke. Like I was something to be embarrassed by."
Harriet took a small step forward. "I wasn't embarrassed. I was hurt. And it all came out wrong, I know that."
"No." Harper said, her voice like broken glass. "It didn't come out wrong. It came out exactly the way it always does—with you deciding that your pain matters more than mine."
Harriet went quiet.
"I told you about Scott because you deserved to know. Because you're my sister." Harper continued, her voice rising, the words rushing forward now like floodwater. "And instead of hearing me out, you went into defense mode. Like always. Like I'm just trying to ruin your life. Like I can't possibly be telling the truth."
Harriet looked down, shame darkening her face. "That's not fair—"
"It's exactly fair." Harper's hands were clenched into fists now. "You've never believed me. Not when it mattered."
There was a beat of silence. Then Harper said it—quietly, but with the force of a stone dropped into still water:
"Not even when I told you what Tom did.."
Harriet's breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders stiffened. "Harper—"
"I was ten, Harriet." Her voice was a whisper edged in steel. "I came to you shaking. I trusted you. And you told Mom and Dad that I was unwell. That I was 'making things up.' You sat across from me in the therapist's office and said I had a 'history of lying and exaggeration.' Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
Harriet was crying now, tears slipping down her cheeks silently. She didn't try to wipe them away. She didn't move at all.
"You watched me get torn apart." Harper said, her voice nearly breaking, "By our parents, by their stuck up friends, by Tom's smug fucking silence—and you never once stood up for me! Never once said, 'I believe you.' You didn't want to believe it. Because that would mean the world wasn't perfect. That our family wasn't perfect anymore. That YOU weren't perfect. You were more scared of YOU getting into trouble because you were messing around with an older guy."
"I was a kid too." Harriet whispered. "I didn't know what to do. I was scared, Harper."
"You were three years older than me." Harper spat. "Old enough to choose which version of the truth felt easier. And you chose the lie."
They stood there in the thick silence. Aura stirred slightly on the couch, a small sound slipping from her throat, but didn't wake. Harper turned briefly to look at her, softened just a moment, before returning her gaze to her sister.
"You haven't changed, Harriet." she said. "You still only believe the version of the story where you're the victim."
"I want to try and fix us.." Harriet said, her voice ragged. "To make it better."
Harper shook her head. "I don't want better. I want honest. I want someone who doesn't rummage through my things and then act surprised when it all explodes. I want a sister who believes me the first time, not after I bleed out in front of her or almost lose my life."
Harriet turned toward the door slowly, like the weight of her own regret had made her bones heavier. Her hand paused on the knob.
"I really miss you, Harper." she said, barely audible.
Harper said nothing.