Almost Siblings

Zara’s POV I don’t look at the noticeboard when the results go up. I already know my name will be there: second from the top. Aiden Cole, then me. The hallway is loud, as it always is, when people are pretending not to care. Shoes scrape, lockers slam, someone laughs too hard. I stand still, counting my breaths, because moving too fast would mean I’m rushing toward disappointment, and moving too slow would mean I’m accepting it. I do neither. Second place isn’t failure. That’s what people like to say when they’re trying to sound kind. But kindness doesn’t change the fact that first place comes with silence: no questions, no explanations, no almost. First place is safe. Everything else is noise. I finally look up. There it is. Proof. Clean and unforgiving. Aiden’s name sits above mine like it always does when the universe decides to remind me that perfection is apparently negotiable. He doesn’t turn around when the whispers start. He never does. He already knows. That’s the worst part. Aiden Cole doesn’t celebrate wins; he expects them. The way his shoulders stay relaxed tells me everything I need to know. I hate that about him. I hate that he makes winning look effortless, like I didn’t stay up until three a.m. rewriting notes that were already perfect. Like my hands don’t shake before every exam. Like this doesn’t matter. “Next time,” Maya murmurs beside me. Next time is a lie we tell ourselves to survive the present. I force my gaze forward, away from Aiden, away from the board, away from the quiet truth settling in my chest. I don’t compete because I enjoy it. I compete because losing feels like disappearing. And Aiden Cole has been standing in my way for years. Maya nudges my arm before the hallway can swallow me whole. “Come on,” she says. “Next class.” We move with the crowd, her friends trailing behind us, the sound of our shoes syncing with the rhythm of students filing into the lecture hall. I take a seat near the middle, close enough to the front to look serious, far enough back to breathe. Maya drops into the chair beside me and exhales dramatically, like she’s been carrying the weight of the world instead of a backpack. “You know,” she starts, twisting in her seat to face me, “if you’re this miserable about second place, how do you think I should feel about fifth?” I glance at her. She’s smiling, but it’s the soft kind. The kind that tries to lighten a heavy load. “That’s different,” I say. She raises a brow. “How?” “Because you weren’t aiming for first.” She clicks her tongue. “Wow. So what you’re saying is, my pain is discounted because my expectations were lower?” “I’m saying,” I reply calmly, “that I don’t train myself to lose.” Maya sighs. “Zara, you didn’t lose” Second place. Different word. Same wound. Before I can respond, a shadow falls across our desk. I don’t have to look up to know who it is. “Hey,” Aiden says, like the word doesn’t carry years of irritation with it. I look anyway. I hate that my eyes do that, lift automatically, like some traitor reflex. Aiden Cole stands there in his usual uniform of effortless distraction: dark hair falling just slightly into his eyes, like he never bothers to tame it because he knows he doesn’t have to. His eyes are the worst part. Too light against his skin. Too calm. The kind of eyes that look like they’ve already figured you out and decided not to say it out loud. There’s a tattoo slipping out from under the sleeve of his shirt, black ink curling around his wrist, sharp and deliberate. It doesn’t match the fact that he’s top of the class. It doesn’t match the neat handwriting or the way teachers soften when they say his name. A bad-boy contradiction wrapped in perfect grades. He looks like trouble who studies too hard. He’s leaning against the desk like he owns the space, like he’s not painfully aware of how people look at him, or maybe exactly aware and just doesn’t care. Everything about him says confidence without effort, intelligence without fear. I despise that combination. “Second place isn’t bad,” he says. “You’re still top two.” I stare at him. Maya lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Okay, this feels like a bad time…” “Aiden,” I cut in, keeping my voice level, “no one asked you.” He shrugs, unfazed. “Just saying. You act like the world ended.” I feel it then, that familiar heat in my chest. Controlled. Precise. Dangerous. “Watch your back,” I say quietly. That gets his attention. “I’m serious,” I add. “The exams next month? I’m taking first place.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with something between amusement and challenge. “Oh,” he says slowly, “should I be scared?” “You should,” I reply. He chuckles, low and mocking. “Of you taking my place?” “Yes.” Aiden smiles like this is funny. Like this is a game. “Good,” he says. “I was starting to think you were getting comfortable down there.” Something snaps. I stand before Maya can grab my wrist. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” I tell him. “Because I don’t stay second.” His smile widens. “Neither do I.” He says it calmly, but there’s a strength underneath it, a quiet confidence that isn’t loud because it doesn’t need to be. His voice is steady, sure of itself, like he’s stating a fact rather than issuing a challenge. My stomach flips. I hate that it does. Aiden doesn’t sound defensive. He sounds certain. Like he’s already seen the outcome and decided it favours him. That’s the part that gets to me, the pride in his voice, the way he doesn’t raise it to be heard, because he knows I’m already listening. For a split second, excitement cuts through my irritation, sharp and unwelcome. It feels too much like fear. Because he is competitive. Maybe more than I am. That’s what no one talks about. Aiden goes to parties. He disappears on weekends. He cycles through girlfriends like chapters he never rereads. He laughs, drinks, lives like he isn’t carrying the same pressure the rest of us are suffocating under and still, somehow, he shows up and takes first place as it costs him nothing. Like excellence is a habit, not a sacrifice. That terrifies me. Because if I need discipline and control, and sleepless nights, to stay at the top, and he can do it while living freely, what does that say about me? His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary, like he knows exactly what just passed through my head. Then he smiles. Not wide. Not cruel. Confident. And that’s when I know. Next month isn’t just about grades. It’s about pride. And if I lose to him again, it won’t just hurt; it will prove something I’m not ready to face. The door opens at the front of the hall, and the lecturer walks in, cutting the tension cleanly in half. Aiden steps back, returning to his seat as if nothing had happened. I sit down slowly, my heart pounding, my hands steady. Rule number one was never optional. Never be number two. And next month, I’m breaking him. The lecturer talks. Slides change. Pens move. I hear none of it. I copy notes anyway, muscle memory carrying me through equations and definitions while my mind replays Aiden’s voice on a loop. Calm. Certain. Proud. Like, first place already belongs to him, and he’s just letting the rest of us borrow hope. When the bell finally rings, I don’t wait for Maya. The library feels safer. It always does. I spend the rest of the afternoon there, surrounded by silence and paper and the low hum of fluorescent lights. I read. I revise. I rewrite notes that don’t need rewriting. Hours pass without meaning. This is where I remember who I am, where numbers behave, words stay where you put them, and effort still counts for something. By the time I get home, it’s a little past six. The smell of sautéed onions hits me first. My dad is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming under his breath, as if cooking isn’t an act of concentration but comfort. “Hey, Zara,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “How are you? How was school?” “Fine,” I reply, dropping my bag by the door. The word lands easily. Too easily. Like nothing significant happened today. Like my entire sense of order didn’t tilt slightly off its axis. He nods, stirring the pot. “Did the test results come out?” My shoulders stiffen. “Yes.” “And your position?” There it is. I don’t hesitate. Hesitation would give me away. “I got first.” The lie tastes bitter and familiar. It settles somewhere heavy in my chest, but I swallow it down. My dad smiles, proud and warm. “That’s my girl. Keep it up, and you’ll graduate valedictorian.” Valedictorian. The word echoes. It’s always been between two names. Mine and Aiden’s. One more term decides everything. If I take first this time, it’s mine. If he does… “Well,” my dad continues, plating the food, “that brings me to the good news.” I brace myself. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he says gently. “For about five months now. I’d really like you to meet her.” I keep my eyes on the counter. My mother died when I was five. I don’t remember her voice clearly, but I remember the space she left behind. The quiet. The absence that never fully closes. Talking about my dad’s love life always feels like reopening something that never healed properly. “She’s invited us over for dinner tomorrow,” he adds. “She wants to meet you properly. So I’ll need you to come back a bit earlier from school.” I nod, because nodding is easier than explaining why my chest feels tight. “That’s… okay,” I say, carefully. He smiles, relieved. “Good. I think you’ll like her.” There’s a pause, then, almost casually, “Oh, and she has children,” he says. “One son, actually, goes to your school. You probably know him.” My heartbeat stutters. “OH?” I manage. “Yes,” my dad says, turning back to the stove. “His name is Aiden.” The room tilts. The air feels too thin, too sharp. My mind refuses the word at first, rearranges it, looks for another explanation, but there isn’t one. Aiden. Aiden Cole. First place. Beautiful eyes. Quiet pride. The boy who stands between me and everything I’ve worked for. I don’t speak. I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at the counter, as the realisation crashes through me in waves. This isn’t a rivalry anymore. This is about to become a disaster.