The Fractures
Their parents never said it outright. They didn't have to.
It was in the small things: the tilt of their mother's head when Elena spoke, the way their father's lips quirked upward when Elena shared her grades. Even the silence around the dinner table carried weight, as though the family's balance depended on Elena keeping her spine straight and her smile neat. Mara sat across from her, watching the charade play out night after night, chewing her food as if it might choke her.
Elena played her part well. She recited her achievements like lines in a script: top marks in math, compliments from her literature teacher, a perfect score in the last spelling quiz. Her voice never faltered. Mara noticed, though, how tightly Elena's fingers curled around her fork, the faint whiteness at her knuckles.
When Mara tried to speak, to mention something she'd done that week—a sketch in art class that had made her teacher pause—her father hummed distractedly, already pivoting back to Elena. The words died in her throat.
Afterward, when the plates were cleared and their parents settled in front of the television, Elena locked their bedroom door and collapsed onto the carpet.
"I can't keep doing this."
The words spilled out of her like a confession. Mara blinked, caught off guard. Her sister never broke character—not here, not where Mara could see the seams.
"Doing what?" Mara asked cautiously.
Elena pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. "All of it. Pretending. Carrying it. Every single day."
Mara sat on the edge of the bed, unsure whether to reach out or give her space. "You make it look easy."
"It isn't." Elena let out a laugh that cracked like glass. "You think I don't feel it? The pressure? They only see me, Mara. They don't even see me. They see… the version of me they want to believe in. If I slip—just once—it'll all fall apart."
Mara clenched her jaw. "So what? Let it fall apart. Then maybe they'll finally notice—"
"They'll notice the wrong things," Elena interrupted sharply, lowering her hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed, haunted. "They'll look at me the way they look at you."
The words landed like a slap. Mara flinched but said nothing. Her sister's face softened immediately, regret flickering across her features.
"I didn't mean it like that," Elena whispered.
But she had. They both knew it.
Silence stretched between them, thick and restless. Mara forced herself to speak. "Elena… sometimes, when you're asleep, you… talk. About things."
Elena's brow furrowed. "What things?"
"The pact," Mara said quietly. "Roots. Promises. You don't sound like yourself."
For a long moment, Elena didn't move. Her expression was unreadable—too still, too careful. Then, almost mechanically, she said, "Don't ever repeat that. Not to anyone. Not even to me."
It wasn't a plea. It was a command.
The following week, the cracks widened.
At school, Elena was no longer flawless. She snapped at a teacher when asked to redo an assignment—her voice sharp enough to draw stares. Her composure slipped during a presentation; her hand shook, forcing her to clutch the podium until her knuckles blanched. Mara watched from the back of the classroom, unsettled.
At home, Elena claimed headaches to avoid family dinners. She kept their bedroom curtains drawn, the air heavy and stale. Once, Mara caught her shredding a sheet of paper into tiny fragments, her breath coming too fast. Later, Mara found the remnants stuffed in the trash, covered in frantic handwriting:
Don't forget. Don't slip. Don't break it.
The words looped again and again, letters gouged deep into the paper.
Another night, Mara woke to the sound of whispering. She turned and saw Elena sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes wide open, muttering to herself. Not sleep-talking this time—awake, but elsewhere.
"Elena?" Mara whispered.
Her sister jerked violently, as if wrenched out of a dream. For a second her eyes looked glassy, wrong. Then the mask slid back into place, her lips curling into a practiced smile.
"I'm fine," she said. Too quickly. Too bright.
She lay back down, but her body was rigid, her breathing uneven. Mara sat frozen, staring into the dark.
The unraveling was no longer something only Mara could see. Elena was slipping in daylight, and Mara couldn't tell if it was exhaustion, madness, or something older—the echo of that pact neither of them dared to name.
And in the silence of their room, Mara realized something that chilled her more than Elena's smile:
Her perfect sister was breaking. And whatever seeped through the cracks wasn't just Elena anymore