The breaking point came two weeks later. Mira’s old prom dress—a deep emerald satin she had saved for a formal in college—hung in the shared closet. Lena asked to borrow it. “It’ll be too short on me,” Lena said, “but I can wear it as a tunic with leggings.”

She came home in May, arms full of dirty laundry and a smug sense of adult accomplishment. Lena picked her up at the bus station. When Mira stepped off the Greyhound, she froze. Lena was leaning against the car, arms crossed, wearing the same smirk Mira used to wear. Only now, Lena was looking down at her.

They both laughed, and the house felt full again.

For eighteen years, Mira Sato defined herself by two things: being the eldest, and being the tallest. At 5’9” in her sophomore year of high school, she had lorded over the hallways, her long legs eating up the linoleum while her younger sister, Lena, trotted three inches behind. Mira was the protector, the first driver’s license, the one who reached the top shelf at the grocery store without a tiptoe. It was an unspoken order of the universe.

“Probably.”

Lena grinned. “You want to borrow my platform boots for the party next week?”

Mira looked at her sister’s face, then at her own reflection in the mirror over Lena’s shoulder. She was still Mira. Still the eldest. Still fierce. Just a little closer to the ground.

“You know,” Mira whispered, “I used to put my chin on top of your head when we hugged.”

Three days passed in a cold war of polite breakfasts and averted eyes. Mira found herself avoiding the full-length mirror. She wore flats when Lena wore heels. She stopped standing next to her at family photos. The house felt smaller, and so did Mira’s sense of self.