I thought I found my sister
not by blood,
but by bond—
one of those once-in-a-lifetime
ride-or-die
“if the world burns, we’ll roast marshmallows together”
kind of friendships.
She said she loved me.
Said I was family.
Said she saw me,
like really saw me,
in the way that makes you stop
looking in the mirror
for approval.
And for a while,
that was enough.
Our laughter was symphony,
inside jokes stacked like Jenga blocks,
each one more offbeat than the last.
We were artists of the ache,
painting our pain
into poems
and turning our trauma
into goddamn glitter.
But somewhere
between the last shared meme
and the silence that followed,
she just…
let go.
No fight.
No funeral.
Just a vanishing act.
Like I was a phase
she grew out of,
like friendship was fashion
and I was last season’s regret.
And it wrecked me.
Because I don’t do surface-level.
I dive.
I give.
I build shrines
to the people I love
and she?
She bulldozed hers
and left the rubble in my inbox.
I’ve been holding
conversations with ghosts,
scrolling through old messages
like a séance.
Searching for signs
that I didn’t imagine
the whole fucking thing.
I guess I wasn’t her forever.
I was her “for now.”
Her comfort blanket
until the storm passed.
Her soft place to land
until she found someone softer.
And yeah,
I still miss her.
But I miss who I thought she was
more than who she turned out to be.
So here’s to me—
to the friend who stayed,
even when others didn’t.
To the sisterhood
I carry in my chest
like a wound that still sings.
To the love I gave
with both hands,
even if all I got back
was silence.
And to the next one:
if you call me sister,
mean it.
Because I don’t break easy,
but when I do…
I bleed truth.
