Threads of Us

We were born two years apart, but somehow, it always felt like we shared the same breath. My sister Aaliya and I weren’t just siblings; we were co-conspirators in mischief, partners in crime, and occasional sworn enemies over TV remote battles.

Our house was never quiet, never too big or too small — it was just enough to hold the sound of our laughter, the echoes of our arguments, and the countless stories written on the walls in crayon (mostly by me, blamed on her).

From the very beginning, Aaliya was the neat, careful one — all braided hair and straight-A report cards. I was the chaos in her calm, the tornado that left trails of Lego on the floor and half-eaten cookies under the couch.

One time, I tied all her shoelaces together while she was praying. She got up and fell like a chopped tree, right in front of our guests. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just gave me that look — the “you’ll-pay-in-your-sleep” look — and sure enough, two days later, she put itching powder in my school socks. War was declared, and peace was negotiable only with candy.

But beneath all the teasing and trickery, there was something deeper — a kind of invisible thread that tied us together, no matter how far apart we ran.

I still remember the day Dad lost his job. The whole house seemed to lose color. Meals were quieter, lights were switched off earlier, and there was this constant tension hanging like a curtain. Aaliya, at only 12, suddenly became an adult overnight. She started helping Mom with tutoring kids in the neighborhood, saving every coin she could. I noticed her slipping some of her earnings into my school bag, wrapped in a paper that read: “Don’t tell Mom. Buy your art stuff. You’re good at it.”

That was the first time I realized: behind her scolding voice was the softest heart I’d ever known.

As teenagers, we grew into different worlds. She got busy with her science projects and serious friends. I dived into drawing comics, dreaming of becoming a graphic novelist. We’d pass in the hallway with half-smiles and sarcastic comments. Still, I knew — whenever life punched me in the gut, she’d be there with a bandage and a biting remark like, “Only you could fall on your face during a standing ovation.”

When she got into medical school in another city, I didn’t say it, but I missed her terribly. The house felt hollow, like someone had turned down the volume. Her room stayed neat, untouched — the complete opposite of mine, still a battlefield of creativity and mess.

She called every week. Not the long, teary calls you'd expect in movies, but short, practical check-ins.

“How’s Mom’s blood pressure?”

“Still drawing weird aliens?”

“Tell Dad to stop eating late.”

And once in a while:

“Miss me yet, loser?”

I’d pretend to laugh, but my heart would tighten a little every time.

Years passed. I published my first comic book. She became Dr. Aaliya Siddiqui. At her graduation, as she stood there in her white coat, smiling like the sun, I felt prouder than I had words for.

That night, I gave her a hand-drawn card — a little comic strip of our childhood. From our pillow fights to her tutoring me before my math exams, to our silent battles over who got the last slice of cake.

She looked at it, eyes moist, and whispered, “I kept all your drawings, you know. Every one you gave me.”

That invisible thread pulled tight again. No matter how many years had gone by, how many cities separated us — we were stitched together by memory, madness, and mutual blackmail.

Now, with our own lives and careers, we still bicker over small things. We tease, we challenge, we roll our eyes. But there’s always that unspoken understanding between us: that when the world turns its back, we have each other.

Because siblings aren’t just people you grow up with. They’re your oldest mirrors, your first best friends, and sometimes, the only ones who still remember the version of you with chocolate on your face and dreams too big for your shoes.

And through all the chaos, changes, and chapters — the threads of us remain unbroken.