Right now, I sneak into her bed, wrestling with her for the bolster before whining as she hugs it tight and faces the wall, ignoring me. We lie side by side staring at the ceiling, making strange comments we'd never tell anyone, like about how I recently dreamt that frogs poured out of my mouth while she just sat laughing, or about how when younger she thought that all lizards were rubber toys, and as we intertwined our fingers and together imagine stars imprinted on the ceiling, like we once did with glow-in-the-dark star-shaped stickers, or together begin strange missions to identify cracks we never before found in the darkened white walls, we close our eyes to imagine we were by the beach, the fan the sea breeze. Then, she slowly drifts to sleep, beginning her rhythm of deep breaths, the quiet snores which I hate turning into a lullaby of love, the quiet beat of the ocean I imagine. And so I open my eyes, turn towards her, and kiss her goodnight, and hear her mutter subconsciously,
"I eeuhove1 you, jie2." Not sis, jie.
And it is always in such moments that I knew she was my only best friend.
1 Eeuhhove – love. The sister in this story has overcome speech disability, and the only traces of her disability is the fact that she still cannot pronounce the consonant 'L'.
2 Jie – sister in chinese.