By the time we get home, my brain feels like it’s been wrung out, and my body’s running on fumes. I make a beeline for the bathroom and give myself a quick shower—the kind that’s less “spa retreat” and more “scrub the day off before it stains my soul.”
When I step into the living room with a towel wrapped around my head, I find Jia sitting cross-legged on the floor, nose buried in a book, with loose pages scattered across the coffee table like some kind of literary crime scene.
It’s… weird. I’m used to her being a walking megaphone—laughing too loud, talking too much, moving like she’s permanently plugged into an espresso machine. But this? Quiet. Studious. Calm. It feels unnatural, like watching a tiger politely drink tea with its pinky up.
I keep reminding myself: this isn’t my sister
