I have a vague memory of a sister. Everyone in the neighbourhood does, but nobody talks about her, and so I didn’t know how her life ended. All I know is her name: Juliet. I had heard my mother talk in hushed tones with the other local women, about how beautiful Phe was, and how she had been such a happy child, and how it was such a shame.

A shame.
But who’s shame? Juliet’s? God’s?

I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and linked my fingers with hers. “Juliet wrote that?” I say, trying to press my voice with kindness, when all I want is for her to tell me everything. I want her soul, like she has mine. Like she’s always had mine.

Ophelia starts. Her eyes widen and she shrinks in my arms.
“Yes,” she whispers. “The day before it happened. The day before she died… she…” She trails off. “We were lying on that trampoline, and just talking … just talking and she grabbed my shoe and wrote that … because she … was the only one who liked me.”

I like you.