Silent Half

I woke up before the sun again. Not because I had to—Saturdays were mine—but because sleep never stayed long in this room. My little space, tucked away at the far end of the estate, had once been used for staff overflow. Now, it was mine alone. A leftover place for a leftover daughter. I sat up in my narrow bed, the familiar creak of the mattress greeting me. Light filtered in through the curtains, casting long lines across the bare floor. The hum of the estate waking up began outside—cooks preparing breakfast, gardeners wheeling carts through the dewy grass. It was the weekend. My weekend. That meant I got to see them. Elijah. Finn. Jace. I was still in school—19 and finishing my second-to-last year. First runner-up in academic standing, which would’ve been impressive if Amara hadn’t been first. Again. Amara. My twin. The daughter everyone saw. But I had my own rhythm, my own life, even if it lived in the spaces between what others noticed. And on weekends, I wasn’t just the invisible twin. I was a little sister—their little sister. And that made the world feel a little brighter. By 7:30 AM, I was dressed and slipping out the servant entrance. I wore my favorite navy cardigan, the one Finn gave me last Christmas, and the soft flats Jace bought me because he said my old ones were “criminally thin.” A sleek black car already waited at the edge of the estate. Mr. Gino, Elijah’s long-time driver, stepped out and opened the door for me. “Good morning, Miss Alina,” he said warmly. “Morning, Mr. Gino,” I replied with a smile, settling into the backseat. He didn’t need directions. He knew the route. Everyone did by now. I’d been making these weekend rounds since I was fifteen. What started as occasional visits turned into tradition. Even Elijah’s assistants made a spot in his calendar now—‘Alina: No interruptions.’ Elijah’s office was in a tower of glass and steel that seemed to scratch the clouds. Thirty floors of power and silence. He was thirty now, with a jawline carved by stress and a wardrobe made entirely of black, navy, and precision. I entered through the side door his secretary always left cracked open for me. The moment I stepped into his office, he looked up from his laptop, already frowning. “You didn’t call.” “Good morning to you too,” I said, setting my bag on the leather chair across from his desk. He stood, wearing one of his usual tailored suits, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. “Alina. You can’t just show up.” “I’ve been showing up every Saturday for four years.” “That’s not the point.” “It feels like it is,” I said with a small shrug. He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly combed hair. “Still staying in the maid’s quarters?” I nodded. “You know you can stay in the main house. You don’t have to—” “I like my room,” I said quickly, and he stopped. He didn’t push. He never really asked why. “You’re still in school,” he said, sitting down again. “That’s good. But...what’s your plan?” I looked at him quietly. “Graduate. Go to college. Maybe teach.” He raised an eyebrow. “Teaching. Hm.” “You disapprove.” “No. I just wonder if you’re aiming low because that’s what you think you deserve.” That stung. But I didn’t show it. “Elijah,” I said gently, “I came to see you. Not for a lecture.” He stared at me for a long moment. “You're too quiet for your own good.” “Maybe. But I still hear everything.” That made the corner of his mouth twitch—his version of a smile. “You want coffee?” he asked. “I want to steal your espresso machine.” “Not a chance.” His employees were used to me now. On my way out, I passed the marketing team in the lounge. One of the junior designers, Casey, waved. “Hey, Alina! Leaving already?” “Yep, just making my rounds.” “She’s cuter than the CEO,” someone whispered behind their mug. I pretended not to hear. I heard. I always did. Next stop was Finn. Finn, 28 and barely human sometimes. He spent more time around Petri dishes than people. But every month—sometimes twice—he came home just to see me. His lab was in a quiet complex on the outskirts of the city. As soon as the gate buzzed me in, one of his interns waved me through like I was some VIP. “Dr. Muller’s sister?” the girl said. “He’s in the greenhouse wing.” I found him crouched beside a plant sample under a microscope, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair sticking up like he’d slept in the lab again. He looked up and blinked. “Alina?” “You said third Saturday. It’s the third Saturday.” He checked his watch, muttered a curse, then smiled sheepishly. “I lost track. Sorry.” “It’s okay. I brought pastries.” That got his full attention. We sat in the sunlit corridor with our backs against the wall, sharing croissants and bad coffee from the vending machine. He leaned his head against the glass. “You really don’t mind coming all the way here?” “I like it.” He glanced at me. “You ever feel like you’re living in a different orbit than everyone else?” “Every day.” He nodded slowly. “You ever tell them? What it’s like?” “They wouldn’t hear me if I did.” Finn didn’t answer right away. He pulled a small box from his bag and handed it to me. “What’s this?” “A DNA test kit. Just for fun.” I laughed. “Are you trying to prove I’m not actually Amara’s twin?” “Maybe,” he grinned. “Or maybe I want to prove you’re made of better stuff.” I leaned my head on his shoulder. He was quiet for a while, then said softly, “You should leave that house one day.” “I don’t want to leave you guys.” “You might have to.” Back in the car, I texted Jace to let him know I was on the way. He replied in all caps: “HELL YES. TRACK’S READY. HOPE YOU GOT GUTS TODAY.” I smiled. Jace, 24, was the wild one. Tatted, fast, and reckless. The racing compound he co-owned looked more like a movie set than a business, and the people there treated him like a legend. When I arrived, his crew was gathered by the pit lane. I’d barely stepped out of the car when I heard it: “ALINAAAAA!” Jace ran up, arms open, grease on his hands. “You made it!” “Of course.” He pulled me into a spinning hug, then set me down. “You hungry?” “A little.” He snapped his fingers. “Someone get my sister real food! None of that protein bar trash!” His friends and team had long since gotten used to me. They greeted me like family, offering snacks, stories, and safe places to stand during test laps. They called me “Little Mul,” after our family name. I didn’t correct them. Jace let me sit in the driver’s seat of his new car, explaining every feature with enthusiasm only he could muster. “You know, if I die, you’re getting everything,” he said casually. “Wow. What a gift.” He grinned. “You’re the only one who wouldn’t crash it.” We rode the track once, helmeted and howling with laughter. Then we sat on a low wall watching the sun dip low behind the compound. “You’re gonna be okay, right?” he asked suddenly. I looked at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “You’re...quiet. Even more than usual.” I forced a smile. “I’m okay, Jace.” “You better be. ’Cause if anyone messes with you...” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. That night, back in my little room, I sat with my journal open and a pen in hand. The lights in the main house had gone out. Amara was probably asleep in her sunlit room with her awards and letters from universities already fighting to take her. But I had something else. Something small. Precious. I had love, in the quiet way it comes from brothers who never learned how to say it out loud. Elijah, who scolded but always cleared time. Finn, who forgot the world but remembered me. Jace, who never stopped making me laugh. They didn’t know what was coming. Neither did I. But somehow, that day, I felt it brushing against the edges of everything—the weight of time, the ache in my ribs I kept ignoring, the subtle warnings my body whispered when no one was looking. But I would keep showing up. Because being the silent half didn’t mean I wasn’t whole. Not yet.