Chapter I - Sofia
Aurora keeps refreshing the page, convinced that maybe if she clicks enough times, the results will just give in out of pure exhaustion.
That sound is driving me insane; if it were anyone else, the mouse would've already done a triple somersault out the window.
But she... she's not just my sister.
She's my damn weak spot.
And I always end up giving her everything she wants.
I take a deep breath, trying to summon the discipline of a Tibetan monk... but with a lot less success.
"Auri," I whisper, "if you keep this up, the computer's going to give up before they even publish the results."
She bites the inside of her cheek — it's what she does when she's worried — and ignores me completely.
She clicks again.
And again.
Lord, give me strength.
I get out of bed carefully, but the second my eyes meet her face, I'm caught off guard.
It always happens.
I look at her and get lost, like I always do.
It's not just affection — with Aurora, it feels flat-out impossible to find a single flaw.
Every line of her face looks like it was carefully designed: high cheekbones, a delicate nose, full lips.
And those eyes — huge, so intensely blue you feel like you're drowning in an ocean — are capable of making you forget everything else.
And her hair? God, I almost hate her for it. That perfectly shiny blonde, not a split end in sight. Even after three hours of dance rehearsals, it still looks like she just walked out of a salon. Humidity doesn't even dare touch it.
Nothing like me, who clearly got the spare parts left over after she was born.
A rounder face, a rounded nose, dark eyes with nothing special about them except their annoying elongated shape — a nightmare to put makeup on.
Thin hair that turns into an anarchic bush at the first hint of rain.
And a body that's never quite enough: shorter, softer, missing all of my sister's perfect proportions.
It's not like I spend my days feeling sorry for myself.
But next to her, I always feel like the beta version. The defective prototype.
And the worst part? People never fail to point it out.
But despite all that, there's no rivalry between us — because, honestly, trying to compete with her would be useless. And depressing too.
I look at Aurora the way you look at sunlight: so bright it's almost blinding... yet you never want to look away.
She's beautiful inside and out — and yes, sometimes it feels almost unfair.
She was like that even as a kid: almost stubbornly good, fragile and strong at the same time.
She rarely cried, and argued even less.
She always found an excuse for everyone, too kind to believe people could be bad.
Me? I'm the opposite. Maybe all the world's negative traits ended up in my share. Distrustful by nature, always ready to see the catch even when there isn't one.
How many times have I had to pull her out of situations where her naivety would've chewed her up.
She reaches out her hand; I stand behind her, tilt my head, and bare my teeth.
Yet she's never lost that way of seeing the world.
Her dream? Always the same: to become a doctor.
Not for the title on the wall, but to be where she's truly needed.
Not shiny hospitals — the front line. Field hospitals. Places where few have the courage to set foot.
"Five minutes to go," she says suddenly, jerking me out of my thoughts.
And she keeps clicking stubbornly, as if she hasn't been doing exactly that for the last ten minutes.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
"Aurora Maria Cardano. There are five minutes left. Explain to me why you're torturing that poor mouse like it owes you money."
"Maybe they'll publish them earlier."
"But don't even hope for it." I nudge her with my hip to steal a bit of her chair. "You know how bureaucracy works."
"It's a serious university, Sofi," she fires back with a nudge, but I just lift the corner of my mouth in a smirk that basically says yeah right.
Today's the day they release the results of the Medicine test at the Biomed & Applied Sciences Academy — the infamous BASA. One of the most prestigious universities in the country. Big ambitions.
But if anyone can reach them, it's Aurora.
The only problem? It takes about two years of Dad's salary. Gross, of course.
In other words: way out of our league.
The one silver lining of having a parent who works in a soul-sucking refinery is that, to ease its conscience, the company throws employees' kids a few perks: free dentists, study trips, and the occasional scholarship to fancy universities.
Few scholarships, obviously. Thirty in total, divided among thousands of desperate students across the country. So passing the test isn't enough — and that alone wipes out candidates like flies.
You also have to be in the top ten of the program you want to get into to get the scholarship.
For me, that would be pure madness. But if anyone can do it, it's Aurora.
And yet here she is — hands shaking, eyes locked on the screen — trying to keep her nerves under control as she waits for the verdict.
"Stop being so anxious. We went over your answers a million times — they were all correct!"
"I might have answered differently," she murmurs, biting her lip. "Or maybe I'm remembering it wrong. You know, stress messes with your head."
I sigh, run a hand through my hair, and stare up at the ceiling like divine inspiration might drop and tell me how to calm her.
Of course, nothing.
I know she'll make it, but her agitation crawls under my skin.
"Come on," I say, shaking my head a little and taking her hand. "In less than three minutes, we'll be jumping around the room screaming with joy." I nudge her shoulder gently. "In the meantime, how about we distract ourselves for a bit? You love singing."
"A song?" She raises an eyebrow, uncertain. But at least her eyes finally leave the screen. And thank goodness, she stops that annoying tapping. "What song?"
"A silly one, so we can laugh. Like... Old MacDonald Had a Farm?" I say with a short laugh, hoping to c***k her armor.
She crosses her arms and gives me that skeptical look — the one that makes her mouth curl in a way that's too funny to take seriously.
"Okay, then a Christmas one, since it's that time of year," I shrug. "You love Christmas."
And as always, a smile blooms on her face. Christmas works like a switch for her: just say the word and she lights up.
"All right," she says, her eyes sparkling. "But will you accompany me on the piano?"
She knows I hate playing in front of anyone — especially her — but today, I can't say no.
We get up together and head to the living room. I sit at the piano, placing my hands on the yellowed keys; she stands in front of the music stand, ready to perform.
I start with Carol of the Bells, then move on to White Christmas. My fingers may not be expert, but they're good enough to keep up with her.
We burst out laughing at every wrong note, every missed chord.
For a moment, everything else fades away: just us, the music, and that December magic that always finds us, no matter what.
But with Auri, that magic is always there.
Aurora laughs, her eyes bright and carefree. The outside world disappears—not even the results exist anymore—so I just keep playing.
I watch her as my fingers clumsily slide over the keys, a smile on my lips that says mission accomplished.
A quick glance at the digital clock tells me it's been ten minutes since the results came out, and my stomach tightens.
I play the last chords of Cohen's Hallelujah — I don't even know how we ended up here — then draw in a breath.
"It's time," I whisper, pointing to the clock.
