A Love Story Between Sisters

Lena always joked that her little sister, Amara, was born with a magnet in her chest—always pulled toward her, no matter what.

When they were children, that closeness was just part of the wallpaper. Sharing bunk beds and bowls of cereal, watching cartoons huddled under the same blanket, and scribbling names into notebooks with matching pens. Lena was older by three years, and in Amara’s eyes, she was a blend of superhero, mentor, and best friend.

As they grew, their personalities divided like day and dusk. Lena was practical, driven, always with a plan; Amara was impulsive, tender-hearted, and a little reckless with both her emotions and decisions. But instead of pulling them apart, those differences acted like glue. They leaned into each other’s strengths, and forgave each other’s flaws.

Their parents called it sweet. Their friends called it strange. The truth? It was survival. Their home wasn’t always kind. Their father had a temper that cracked like thunder, and their mother had learned to shrink into herself just to stay whole. On the nights when doors slammed and voices rose, Lena would slip into Amara’s bed, hold her tight, and whisper, “I’ve got you.” And she did.

It wasn’t until Lena left for college that the distance tested their bond. Amara cried silently at the bus stop the day Lena boarded a one-way ride to a new city. Lena didn’t cry then — she waited until she was alone in her dorm, unpacking the photo strip they’d taken at the county fair.

They texted daily. Called on Sundays. But nothing filled the void of having your person next to you when the world was loud and cold.

Then came the worst year of their lives.

Amara, just out of high school, fell in love with a man who promised stars but gave her scars. The relationship started with flowers and ended in isolation. Lena didn’t find out until it was too late — until Amara called one night, voice shaking, and said, “Can I come stay with you for a while?”

No questions. Just yes.

That night, Lena met Amara at the bus station with a wool coat and hot cocoa. Amara looked smaller than she remembered. Not physically, but in spirit. Her eyes were dull, her laugh gone. Lena didn’t ask for details. She ran a bath, washed Amara’s hair, and let her fall asleep with her head in her lap — just like when they were kids.

In the months that followed, they rebuilt. Slowly, painfully. Lena took time off work. Amara started therapy. Some days were good. Some were impossibly heavy. But they stayed side by side, walking each other through it.

One morning, Amara said, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Lena smiled softly. “You’re my sister. And that’s still someone worth being.”

They made a ritual of watching the sunrise from the rooftop every Sunday, a new beginning each week. They talked about small things — coffee flavors, book characters — and big ones too — fear, love, forgiveness.

Years passed. They grew up. Moved apart. Found lives of their own.

Lena got married to a quiet woman who made sourdough bread and sang in the shower. Amara became a teacher and painted birds in her free time. But every year, on the first Sunday in June — the date Lena left for college — they’d reunite, no matter where they were. No excuses. No missed calls.

On one of those reunions, Lena brought a gift — a simple gold bracelet engraved with four words:

“I’ve got you. Always.”

Amara cried, of course. She always had the softer heart. “You saved me,” she said.

Lena shook her head. “You saved me, too.”

It wasn’t a romantic love, but it was a love that endured more than most romances ever do. It was fierce, messy, unwavering. A love rooted in shared pain and shared hope. A bond not just of blood, but of choice — choosing each other again and again.

In the end, that’s what family is. Not perfection. Not ease. But showing up. Being the one who says, “I’ve got you,” and meaning it.

Because some shadows are cast not by darkness, but by someone standing in the light behind you, making sure you never fall too far.