<div class="text-justify">
It's been years since Mira slipped out of my reach. We were seventeen then, full of life and hope for the future. Our dreams to pursue medicine at Cambridge University were as tall as a skyscraper. Mira was my cousin — no, my better half. Nothing could tear us apart, or so we thought. 

<center>![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmbTHdootM7NPCfiSkjzXx93KAz8Z5Apb4M3nqdxaRacxV/1751978934752.jpg)</center>

*Image Source: ChatGPT*

Until her eighteenth birthday, when she lost the most treasured thing, which I later discovered was her virginity. Before then, I had relocated to the southern part of Nigeria, but I ensured we kept in touch. That day, May 20th, I called her at 2 a.m. As the phone rang from my end, I couldn't help but reminisce about our childhood days together. Days when we played hide and seek in Dad's unfinished building... when we ran from cockroaches and lizards... when nothing bothered us. 

I returned to the present. What could Mira be doing now? I put my brain to work. She must be in deep tears, thanking God for stepping into adulthood. Or... she could be reading — through misty eyes — heartfelt birthday messages on her iPhone, oblivious of the incoming call on her button phone. 

I guess I was right when I said she was my better half. She picked up immediately when I dialled the line on her iPhone. 

“My birthday girl!” I squealed with a tone too ungodly for midnight. Who cared if anyone woke up?

Mira replied with two words. “Hey, sis...” Her voice was heavy with emotions — not of overwhelming joy — but something different. She sounded hurt. Had she been crying?  

“Mira, are you okay?” 

She stayed mute, not even a sigh escaped her lips. The call ended. I tried again, no response. Then I lost it. I called my sister, whose bedroom was three rooms away. No reply came forth. Since she didn't pick up and her husband didn't either, I concluded they were both fast asleep. 

What, then, was eating Mira up? Surely Brian would not have broken up with her on her birthday, would he? 

Months later I visited my sister. Things had changed. Mira was no longer herself. She wouldn't speak to me and she would withdraw into herself, spending hours with her phone like it was the only thing that mattered.

I didn't mean to pry but I needed answers. I searched her drawer for something, anything to hold on to. Her pink colour journal stared at me with curiosity. Hesitating a little, I stooped to pick it up, my mind beating fast for what I was about to do.

I found the words inside: 

“What a birthday present to give an eighteen-year-old. Thank you for stealing my virginity.”

When Mira returned, I confronted her but she spat angrily. 

“What gave you the right to invade my privacy?”

I was too lost for words. This wasn't Mira. Who could have done this thing to her? But why would I be on the receiving end of the baggage of her heated emotions? I wanted to be there for her, to fight this with her, but all she could do was push me away from her space. 

Months later, Mira began to speak in parables. She said she was having a great time sleeping with him. At least, that was her way of showing gratitude for all he'd done for her. Who was the ‘him’? She wouldn't say. It wasn't her boyfriend — in fact, she ended things with him shortly after her birthday, claiming that he was too good for her. 

Three years later, Mira left the house. To everyone, she was pursuing a degree but to me, she was escaping reality. She wanted an environment that wouldn't remind her of what she lost. She shut me and everyone out of her life, deleted her social media accounts, and pitched her tent at school. 

It's been five years since I last saw her. I'll be signing out of a Nigerian university next month, but I can remember our dreams some years ago. Right now, as I lean into the seat on my balcony, letting the gentle morning breeze penetrate through my skin, I can't stop thinking about Mira. The only memories I have now are the times we played as teenagers, when we fried Irish potatoes and ate them all while still frying. Most importantly, the promise we made to always stand by each other. 

When we still left notes for each other, we'd both promised, it would be us against the world. 

If Mira has forgotten, I haven't. So I will pick up my phone and dial her number again. If she does pick up, I will tell her I love her. If not, I will wait until the day she remembers that she's not just anybody, she's my sister. 
</div>