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She stops mid-step, turns around and looks at me like I’ve grown another head. I want to laugh, but by the way she is looking at me, I’d be safer if I don’t. “I guess not.”

It’s good to know some things will never change. And maybe, just maybe, that’s not such a bad thing.

Amelia

“It really isn’t a problem for your parents that I’m here?” Brook questions from my bed, nipping at her lower lip nervously and adds: “Again?”

Turning around in my chair, I face her with a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. You know Mom and Dad love you. You can be here anytime.”

It’s true. My parents love Brook, but they worry about her too. That’s why they never opposed her staying at our house.

Through the years there were a lot of times she would come, sometimes late in the evening, and stay the night. But lately, it’s more often than not. I’m not sure what is happening in her house, but it can’t be good if she is here so much.

Brook hates asking for help, loathes it even, which speaks volumes by itself.

Her mom’s an alcoholic, that’s almost everything I know.

I never met the woman, just seen her a few time from the distance when we were younger. She was always loud and angry, yelling at Brook and calling her names. I even saw her slap Brook once so hard it left an angry, red print on her cheek, but she made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone, so I didn’t.

Even then I knew it wasn’t the best choice, but Brook convinced me that nothing would change even if we did tell somebody. It’ll only get her mom angrier and she’ll hurt Brook more, and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt my best friend or let her end in the system. God only knows where would they take her.

So I did everything I could to help her and she became our adopted family member. I love her like the sister I never had. And in every way that matters, she is my sister.

“I’m just…”

“Brook,” I cut her off before she can finish.

Brook has this awful habit of overthinking everything. She’s accustomed of taking care of herself, of building walls around her heart to protect what’s left of that innocent girl she couldn’t be, that she doesn’t know how to accept people that want to help her. Love and gentleness are almost foreign concepts to her.

She’s been with my family and me for years now. I know she loves us. I know that deep down she knows she’s a part of our family, but living in two different worlds makes her doubt. When she spends time with my family,ourfamily, she relaxes and you can see traces of a sparkle and light in her eyes. The skepticism and darkness that surround her are almost gone, and the weight lifts off her shoulders, but then she would have to go back to her mom for one reason or another and everything good would vanish like it didn’t exist in the first place.

Brook’s jade green eyes lift and meet mine across the room. “Not one more word.”

She smiles and nods her head before concentrating on her homework again.

It’s kind of like our routine. She comes and we have a snack my mom always has on standby, then we go to my room and as we’re both obsessed with schoolwork, we first finish any homework or assignments we have.

Brook usually lays down on the bed—the one that quickly changed from single to king because mostly two people are always sleeping in it—on her tummy, her legs swinging in the air as she does her own thing.

I can never understand how she does it. I need a desk and a chair to study, but not Brook. She lies on the bed, sits on the floor or most time, her favorite, sits on the window seat. It’s a good thing really, because the bedroom is so small there is no way we can put another desk in it.

The window seat takes up most part of the wall, looking at the front yard. There is barely enough space for one person to pass to get to the other side of the bed, and there is a small nightstand in between them. In front of the bed is built-in wardrobe, with two head-to-toe mirrors hanging on the doors. There is a small desk pressed against the other wall, with bookshelf standing against it, and another one, hanging off the wall above the desk.

Some would probably call it cramped, but for two of us, it’s our escape.

Our safe haven.

A few years ago, when Dad decided to paint it, we both agreed on a lavender color for the walls, and then Brook painted a design on the wall above the bed. It was of a tree in the night with a crescent moon, and instead of leaves and flowers, the branches were covered in stars. It was the first time Brook ever painted something for me, and it’s magical. I’ve always known she could paint and draw, but apart from our art teacher, nobody else ever saw her work finished.

Because it was something Brook did for me, it made it special, but knowing she didn’t do it for anybody else made it so precious I never wanted to part with it again.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Brook whines loudly, waking up Lola and breaking the long silence in which we were scrubbing down answers. “Are you finished yet?”

“Just a bit,” I murmur, trying to concentrate on the equation in my notebook that is making my head hurt.

Absentmindedly, I softly pet Lola’s silky head, soothing her and making her go back to her nap. Lola is my three-years-old Cavalier King Charles spaniel. She’s such a cutie, always looking to cuddle, play or sleep with someone.

“I’m going down and preparing everything for movies then.”

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