There were once three inseparable triplet sisters named Leila, Nora, and me growing up together.

People often assume that time eventually heals every wound, but some deep losses simply learn how to hide.

After Nora tragically passed away at age eleven, strangers simply started referring to Leila and me as twins.

But we never felt like twins, feeling instead like fragments of something that had been permanently broken apart.

Nora had been older by a mere seven minutes, a fact she always treated as permanent authority over our childhood lives.

Those playful arguments became the constant soundtrack of our happy childhood inside a loud house.

Whenever Leila and I argued over toys, Nora always stepped in like a tiny diplomat to make peace.

She carried constant sunshine wherever she went, secretly saving candies and protecting us during thunderstorms.

Then, everything suddenly changed for our family as the adults began whispering nervously in the corners.

Her very first hospital stay felt completely unreal with the sharp, overwhelming smell of medical disinfectant.

Our mother forced a smile for the family, falsely claiming that Nora was just feeling a little tired.

Nora looked smaller inside that medical bed, her wrists appearing too thin as her smile grew harder to hold.

I stayed frozen beside the hospital bed, gripping the metal rail tightly because I thought I could stop what was coming.

No matter how tightly we held on, we could not stop the tragic event that was rapidly approaching our family.

Ten years later, as we reluctantly gathered for our milestone 21st birthday, our mother quietly walked into the living room holding something that made everyone freeze…