To: Twin
Mom keeps asking if I’ll miss you.
I always laugh it off, make a face and pretend to gag. “Puh-lease,” I respond every time, “I’ve been ready to leave her since the womb.”
It’s one of the many well-rehearsed lines I’ve memorized: Yes, we’re twins. I am three minutes older. We’re identical. No, we don’t have telepathy.
And, now that we are seniors: No, we’re not going to the same college.
For the first 17 years of my life, I couldn’t wait for this day. I’d officially be an adult with aspirations that had little to do with yours. We counted down the days together, both eager to be 18 years old, and, later, to be on our own.
In college, we reasoned, we might be known for something besides each other.
Identity is a struggle in a family of seven. We were always grouped together when listed out: mom, dad, Cheyenne, Audri, Alli and the twins. If someone said “Krista,” “and Kayla” would always follow. We both loved each other, but we hated being known as half of a whole.
It caused fights, too. When we were younger, you shoved me. I’d shout through the walls at you for stealing one of my blankets and complain to mom that you put my mattress in the closet again. We shared everything and gave each other nothing.
The arguments lasted through high school: I stole your shirt, and you took my earrings. Those jeans were mine, and I took the last pair of leggings. We’d scream at each other until our throats were hoarse, going to bed angry and staying that way through the next morning.
But then there are the quiet moments that stretch between each argument: you’ll walk into my room and say, “I’m bored.” I’ll complain and send you away, but two minutes later, we’ll be in my bed laughing. You understand every reference I make and finish each quote in the exact same, horrible accent as me.
In the quiet moments, I wanted to make the countdown stop. I know you did, too.
This year hasn’t been a whisper, but it has been quieter than before. We’ll still jabber about potential roommates and new dorm room decor — we still can’t wait for college — but we never mention the fact that we will be seven hours away from each other. Each conversation is stretched out, like we’re lingering in each other’s doorways before saying goodbye.
Now that we’re both 18, that door is shutting, squeaking like some warning neither of us want to listen to. We still walk into each other’s rooms and talk about what we’re excited for, but the familiarity is growing foreign; it’s like coming home to find an old neighbor on your couch saying, you still keep the spare key under the mat.
Despite what I might say to mom every time she asks, I will miss you. Instead of bothering you when you’re reading, I’ll call you and text you so much you’ll wish you had me blocked.
Our childhood did get something right: I am one half of a heart.
Happy 18th birthday,
Your other half.
