Chapter 2
We were identical before the fire.
That was what people always said.
Identical twins.
Same brown hair.
Same blue eyes.
Same small dimple in the left cheek.
Same laugh when we were little.
Same habit of sleeping with one foot outside the blanket.
My mother used to dress us in matching sundresses and let strangers guess who was who.
Chloe hated when they guessed wrong.
I loved it.
To me, being identical felt like magic.
To Chloe, it felt like competition.
She wanted the pink cup if I reached for it first.
She wanted the front seat if I sat near the door.
She wanted people to say her name before mine.
At five, it was cute.
At eight, it became something sharper.
The summer before the fire, our parents began noticing my drawing.
Noticing is a dangerous word in a house where attention is rationed.
I drew people, birds, houses, strange imaginary cities with tiny bridges and bright windows.
My teacher submitted one of my drawings to a local children’s art show.
It won.
My father framed the certificate.
My mother put the newspaper clipping on the refrigerator.
Chloe did not speak to me for two days.
Then she cut the ribbon off the certificate with safety scissors.
When Dad asked who did it, she cried so hard everyone forgot to ask again.
That was how things worked in our house.
Chloe cried.
I explained.
Adults comforted Chloe because tears were easier than truth.
The night of the fire was supposed to be a small family celebration after the art show.
Our grandparents came.
Neighbors came.
There was cake.
There were candles.
There was a stack of gifts on the dining room table.
Chloe had been quiet all evening.
Too quiet.
I remember finding her upstairs in our room with my blue ribbon in her hand.
She had taken it from the refrigerator.
I said, “Give it back.”
She said, “You think you’re special.”
I said no.
She said, “Everyone thinks you are.”
Then she shoved the ribbon into the small metal trash can beside our desk.
There was a candle on the dresser.
Not supposed to be there.
Our mother had lit it earlier because she wanted the room to smell like vanilla before guests toured the house.
Chloe picked it up.
I said, “Put it down.”
She looked at me.
She was crying, but not sadly.
Angrily.
Then she tipped the candle over the trash can.
The ribbon caught first.
Then paper.
Then tissue from birthday gifts.
Flame climbed faster than either of us understood.
Chloe screamed.
I grabbed her hand.
She pulled away and ran toward the closet instead of the door.
Smoke filled the room.
And that was the moment everything people later called a tragedy became a choice.
I could have run.
May you like
Instead, I went back for her.
Read the full story 👉 The fire began when Chloe set Maya’s ribbon alight in jealous anger and panicked as the flames spread.
