I wouldn’t say that my sister Thika and I were particularly close. I was the naive little one, while she appeared to me to be walking on water—She was literally the symbol of perfection, and I wanted to be just like her. If she wore her hair in twin ponytails with a blue clip one day, I would do the same with mine the following day. I used to follow her and her friends around and beg to be included, but a thirteen-year-old’s life doesn’t really have much space for a bother so me ten-year-old sister. Over time, my admiration for her turned into indifference. Living in the same apartment as strangers, we shared meals but barely spoke to one another.

I was so unconcerned when she informed me last year that she would be spending eight months studying abroad in Lisbon, Portugal. I assumed I’d get to use her CD player and wear the dresses she left behind. That was the only way I thought her leaving would affect me.

I sat in my room that first evening after she departed and tried to finish my assignment. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was wrong, something was missing. The apartment was far too silent. Both Thika’s CD player and her voice giggling on the phone with her friends were absent. As I sat there, I became acutely aware of how different life was without her. Even though we didn’t always talk, just having her there made me feel secure.

I sobbed that evening. We wasted years trying to live our own lives and overlooking each other’s, and that made my heart ache. I sobbed that I did not even give her a hug before she boarded her plane. But as the night went on, my sobs turned into tears of peace, tears of new beginnings.

I picked up the phone and called her halfway across the world.

For a long time there was nothing but silence on the other end.

Loving Editor

One of my teachers once asked my class what our favorite memory was. Some described grand awards; others described winning a tournament. My answer, however, invited giggles and hesitant smiles. Why? Because I felt the best when I first learned how to ride my bike—at thirteen. I didn’t mind my classmates’ stares and laughter, because I knew there was more to the story.

My sister and I shared a typical sisterly relationship: we couldn’t stand each other. Or, to be honest, she couldn’t stand me. I hero-worshipped her. Her taste was the type of charm, her personality the definition of cool. My clothes mysteriously looked like hers, and even my words tended to copy those I heard from home. Many times, I even wanted to literally follow my sister, sobbing every time I was banned from attending movies with her. Needless to say, I was a trouble and an annoyance to her. Any sort of conversation we had usually ended up fighting, and try as I might, my sister had an extra six years worth of insulting vocabulary (which meant she usually won). After a while, I stopped trying to impress her and learned to be totally indifferent; perhaps the silent treatment would get more approval. I was wrong. We soon fell into a sad pattern—I avoided her, she ignored me, and deep inside, it hurt. So that’s how it was between us. Indifferent or unfriendly, she was only a sister in name. I truly believed that we would forever be apart, two housemates without conversation, two strangers without warmth. And nothing more.

I still remember the day I learned to ride a bike. I had received the bike that Christmas, which was great, until I realized I had no idea how to ride it. My mom had long since abandoned any attempt to teach me; I had proved to be a panicky, frustrating student. I took it upon myself to learn, a little bit each day, but to no avail; I couldn’t ride my bike, and on that fateful day, it was no different. I was coming to the end of my daily one-hour suffering, and I was so frustrated that I threw my bike aside and began to cry.

I guess that was what caused my sister to come outside.

That was the day, however, I had a taste of what real sisterly closeness could be like.