There were once three sisters.
Me, Leila, and Nora.
People often assume time heals every wound, but some losses simply learn how to hide beneath the surface. Ours was one of them.
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After Nora died, strangers started referring to Leila and me as twins. It was easier for them that way. Easier than acknowledging there had once been three little girls instead of two.
But Leila and I never felt like twins.
We felt like fragments of something that had been broken apart.
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Nora had been older by seven minutes, a fact she treated as if it gave her permanent authority over our lives.
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