She and I share the same kind of loneliness. We share the pleasure of drinking tea in the mornings, afternoons, evenings, and right when night falls. She sits behind her laptop and reads emails; I sit behind mine and listen to overly repeated songs. We have gotten ourselves used to the walls of this house, the tea pot that sits on the kitchen counter, the couch that has no particular odor, the balcony that we sometimes escape to when we’re tired of what’s inside.
But she doesn’t like to share her clothes, her makeup or her shoes. And I don’t like to share my pains, the fantasies I create for myself, or my fears of letting go. I used to think sisters were supposed to share everything. I used to think sisters could share everything. But I see that some things cannot be shared. Even our loneliness, despite its similarity in nature, can be differentiated.