in the mourning. maisy&nixie, vt.

Sasha wasn't all bad. Not all the time. Maybe deluding herself into only remembering the good parts of their fractured relationship was her strange way of coping with her twin's death, but Maisy had made a point to bring up how lovely Sasha was at the funeral.

She'd sent out invitations to her distant siblings, just as she'd sent them out to their picnic all those years ago. As she inked their names & addresses carefully and dropped them one by one into the post box she could hear Sasha scoffing, just as she did the first time.

But Sasha still came along, despite herself. And Maisy held onto that, shutting the envelopes in with the rest of her dark memories.

And she sits here now, a good little girl, remembering nights where they would sit on the roof and look at the stars and be content with each-other for a night. Maisy had done that again the night before, alone yet not, exhausted for it but without regret. She knows that Sasha would scoff at her turning up early to the coffee shop where she'd agreed to join Nixie Summers for breakfast. Knows her sister would turn her nose up at her outfit, comment about how she looked like she hadn't showered in three weeks, knowing damn well Maisy could barely move these days. Remind her sister that she would look much better in the photo ops, step into her favourite dress, curl her hair just so and tie it up with a bow.

So Maisy had risen from her bed that morning, following the steps of a ghost. In a way, embodying her sister's habits felt like a good way to keep her alive. She could become like Sasha and less like Maisy, and then maybe she'd finally be worthy to call herself Sasha Dupree's twin sister. She sees her in her reflection in the mirror that morning, a quiet 'Hmph' before her sister turns away. She sees her in the glass window pane by her cornered-off table, ordering a vanilla latte. Maisy hates coffee, but she orders one anyway. It tastes bitter and rancid, yet far too sweet.

It tastes like Sasha;

so she takes another sip.

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