I walked numbly up to my bedroom on the second floor and, my mind bnk, shoved a change of clothes into an oversized bag. Roman said something from behind me, but I had no strength left to respond.

  It had been foolish to harbor even the slightest hope. I had believed that if I spoke honestly, straight from the heart, Roman would return my feelings. Even after that hope had been betrayed time and again, I could never discard it completely. My tears had long run dry, and my heart—refusing to feel any more—had grown quiet, cold, rigid, like trampled concrete.

  When I left the house without a word, Cire was waiting outside the garden gate.

  She didn’t ask anything. Only one sentence.

  “I’ve come to pick you up.”

  I had emailed her earlier to let her know I’d be staying over. Having heard from Océan that I was returning home to collect my things, she had worried I might get lost and came to meet me on her way to her own house.

  We climbed into the back seat of Cire’s chauffeured limousine together. Her home, she said, was about twenty minutes away in the Marais district, east of Notre-Dame. Just having her there brought me immense relief. Riding the bus alone in this state had felt unbearably empty. She must have known I’d been crying, yet she asked nothing.

  In the end, Roman’s true feelings remained a mystery. The reason for her tears, the words she had swallowed back—everything stayed shrouded in mist.

  “Even though we’re sisters… it’s strange how little I understand her,” I muttered bitterly.

  Cire turned her light green eyes to me.

  “There are many things you can’t understand even within a family,” she said. “My situation might be different from yours, but I still feel afraid of my parents sometimes, and there are moments when I don’t understand them at all.”

  Like me, Cire was of British-French heritage. From a young age, she had belonged to a traveling theater troupe, journeying around the world with her father—a world-famous British stage director—her mother, a French-born stage actress, and other actors and staff. From age three, her parents had put her through rigorous training in acting, dance, and singing. Perfectionists to the core, they demanded discipline not only in her work but in her private life. Any act of defiance was met with harsh scolding and appropriate punishment.

  Because of that, she confessed, she still couldn’t fully rex around them and remained tense whenever they were together.

  “These days I have more solo work, and they’re not as strict,” she said. “But st summer, when we went to Italy, we had dinner together at a vil for the first time in a while. I was so tense under their gaze that I couldn’t even taste the food. Sometimes, you can’t fully trust your heart to your family. Being with them doesn’t always mean you won’t feel lonely. Still, I’m grateful to them.”

  Listening to her speak calmly and logically, I felt ashamed of myself. Compared to her, I was far less mature. In her presence, I was nothing but a child—unable to view things objectively, capable only of crying and breaking down.

  “Maybe the idea that family members can always understand each other is just an illusion,” I said. “No matter how much you hope, you’re betrayed. The closer I try to get, the farther Roman pulls away. We’ve lived like that as long as I can remember. It’s the only way we knew how to exist.”

  Cire nodded quietly.

  “Perhaps it’s precisely because you’re family that there are things you can’t understand.”

  Roman and I weren’t reted by blood, but we were undeniably family. We had bathed together, slept under the same bnkets, and exchanged presents on birthdays. The time spent alone at home, sharing movies and books, had been deeply happy. So had the moments reading her notebook stories. Roman had always been kind, showering me with love worthy of an older sister. She never raised her voice, and whenever I wanted something, she gave it to me without hesitation. Yet one thing I could never obtain—her heart. Bliss and despair coexisted, and happiness could plunge me into misery in an instant. Was this ambivalence all we would ever know?

  “Maybe the one thing you want most is the one you can never have,” I said. “Maybe I’ll never be happy.”

  Cire’s eyes, so clear and light green, met mine and took my breath away.

  “Even if you do get what you want most, it doesn’t guarantee happiness,” she said. “Like achieving your dream of becoming an actress, only to lose your freedom in exchange for fame.”

  Her words carried the weight of someone who had seen the harsh reality beyond dreams.

  “Still,” I said, “I want what I want.”

  “Someday, you might find something far more wonderful than what you’re wishing for now.”

  “For example?”

  “Well… true love, for instance.”

  “Are you a romantic?”

  “Perhaps.”

  I studied her profile as she ughed softly. It felt strange that someone so famous was here beside me, sharing an ordinary, private conversation.

  “You don’t feel like a celebrity at all,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  I recalled how Océan once described Cire as “a truly decent person.” She never acted superior, never looked down on me, and never boasted. She listened attentively, smiled gently, and spoke calmly. Whether cultivated through experience or innate, Cire had a remarkably mature, generous heart.

  Outside, galleries and theaters slid past.

  “By the way,” Cire said, “who’s your sister?”

  “My sister?”

  “There’s a system at this school called the Sisterhood. First- and third-year students are paired as ‘sisters.’ Third-years look after first-years, and first-years support third-years. The names were posted in front of the auditorium recently. My partner turned out to be incredible.”

  “Incredible?”

  “Yes—do you know Mia?”

  “Mia… the one on TV since she was a child?”

  “That’s her. I was shocked!”

  She meant Mia Pascal, the actress born to a dancer and a model. I’d seen her once or twice at school, but countless times on TV. Her blonde hair and clear blue eyes made her a striking senior. She had been called “the angel of television dramas” as a child. Even I, who rarely watched TV, knew her name.

  “We’re having a get-together soon,” Cire said excitedly. “The third-years are cooking for the first-years. I can’t wait!”

  While Cire seemed thrilled, I felt gloomy. I wasn’t confident about getting along with a senior.

  “You might get lucky with Mia,” I said, “but if I get a terrible senior, it’ll be hell.”

  Cire and Mia would likely get along—they shared simir experiences in the entertainment world. But not all seniors were kind. Some could make a junior’s life miserable. If I were paired with one of them, school would be a nightmare.

  I suddenly wondered who Roman’s sister was.

  What if Roman grew close to a cssmate—someone who became her “little sister”?

  I shook the dark thought away.

  Forget Roman.

  Repeating those words, I followed Cire out of the car as it came to a stop.