Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks to Jyde and X Belles Reminisce for reviewing the first chapter.This one is shorter, but just as sad. In fact, to me, it is sadder. What could be worse than loosing a sibling?

For Who We Were

How can grief teach you to hate such commonplace things?

Mirrors.

Every mirror they own, in their living room, bedroom, bathroom, she covers them all. A carelessly tossed towel here, a well draped scarf there, a cluster of pictures taped to the glass, and she does not have to see her own reflection.

But sometimes a scarf slips. Sometimes a picture falls. Sometimes she just needs to look, to reopen the festering wound and clean it out in hopes that this time it can finally heal properly.

Her fingers tremble as she grasps the towel and pulls. It tumbles carelessly aside, and she is staring at her hated reflection.

Leaning in close, she can see, in every feature, every line, every tiny mark, who she is. A wife, happily married to the only man she ever loved. A mother, harassed and prodded and blissful with her beautiful children. A friend, on the phone, helping set the table, still not allowed in the kitchen, talking, laughing. Even a daughter, caring for her widowed mother, bringing the life and joy back into her eyes.

And more. A nurse, an assistant, a teacher, a PTA member, a gardener, a painter, a dog owner… So much to be happy for.

She is happy. Life is peaceful again, and hardship has made the sky bluer, the trees greener, the friends dearer, her husband more beautiful, and the children so very precious. Everything is as close to perfect as a woman could expect.

But if she takes a step back from the mirror, and puts every feature together, she can see what she is no longer. A child, an innocent, a boy-crazy teenager, a superficial fashion follower…

A twin.

Big brown eyes stare into her own, just like they did every day of her life until her sixteenth birthday. The same blonde hair, the same nose, the same chin, the same smile, the same laugh.

How can you learn to live without something you have always had? Even before they were born, they were together. They fought, they laughed, they shared the same friends. Sometimes they even shared the same thoughts. When she was scared of the dark as a child, he crept from his room, crawled into bed beside her, and held her hand. When he fell and broke his arm in third grade, her own had ached for two hours before she had heard of his accident.

Who else, in all the world, in a different store, without any way of knowing what she was buying, would have bought the exact same earrings for their birthday? Who else knew her so well they didn't have to speak?

She lifts her hand, pressing it palm to palm with her reflection. The last night they had truly been together, their souls their own, they held hands until they fell asleep, clinging to each other in the dark. But when her fingers curl now, they meet, and she holds nothing.

Hastily grabbing the towel, she throws it desperately over the glass. But a flash of those brown eyes, reddened and swollen from tears, fells her. She crouches there on the bathroom floor, a fearful child reaching for the hand that will never be there again.

How can one heart go on alone, when it has always beaten with another? How can she look at a face that has always had a living reflection, knowing she will need a mirror for the rest of her days for even a cold facsimile of him? How can she wake up every morning and know he will not share her sunrise, her memories, her laughter and tears?

How can she live without him?

Rising, she pushes away a corner, just enough to see those eyes.

"How could you abandon me? Oh, Aki."

A knock on the door.

"Aya? Is everything okay?"

She turns on the water in the sink, splashing her face.

"I'm okay, Toya."

A lie, and he knows it. But this is one thing they cannot share, and after this gentle approach, she is grateful to hear him retreat.

She uses a different towel to pat her face dry, afraid to disturb the cover and unleash the terrible power of her reflection. She runs a brush through her hair, blows her nose, and straightens her shirt. She has become a master at tidying herself without a mirror.

She turns out the lights as she leaves, and does not look back. It was foolish to slice open the wound again. Better to just leave it, and ignore the build up of grief, rage, and betrayal. It is a wound that will never heal.

How can a heart live, when half of it is dead?