The last text my twin brother ever sent me was Do you mind turning on the light? I never replied, but the answer was: Yes, I do mind. I don't know if the answer would be different now if he asked again. I like to think that it is, but I know I'll never get the opportunity to tell him that.

A notification pops up on top of my screen, covering Morgan's name and contact picture. It's my older sister. At least that's one sibling I can still respond to.

Hannah: Where are you right now?

Me: Poems and Tales.

Poems and Tales is a poetry café. I always come here after school when I don't want to head straight to Hannah's house which is pretty much every single day. It's always nicer to have some time to myself away from everyone I know before I have to go back to my life.

Being at this café makes the rest of the world seem so distant. The lighting from the wall sconces and recessed ceiling lights is always a low, warm yellow glow, bringing out the coziness of the wooden floors and cream-colored walls. The chatter is always barely above a murmur even when the tables are fairly close together. Best of all, people tend to leave me alone, and I can be with my thoughts.

Except when my sister texts to tell me to come home.

Hannah: When do you think you'll be home?

Me: When do you need me to come home?

Hannah: Mom, Dad, and Kate aren't coming until 5, so be back by then.

Me: Got it.

I turn off my screen and sit back with a sigh. Right. My parents and little sister are coming to stay with me and Hannah for winter break. Should be fun to see everyone again. Except it's not everyone. Morgan won't be here for the holidays for the first time.

I swallow, reaching for my phone to open up our text thread again when someone calls my name. I glance around, already plastering a smile on my face in case it's someone I know. It takes me a second to realize that it's not. It's the barista with my hot chocolate. The only reason why it took me a second to figure that out is that she goes back to arguing with some guy sitting on the other side of the counter. I think they do this all the time. It's basically background noise at this point.

I swipe my phone off the table and walk toward them. I try not to stare too much, but it's always hard to mind your own business when you get close to people that are causing a scene. I should know since I've caused scenes before.

The girl jabs her finger at the guy, causing him to arch an eyebrow. Every time she gestures—which is a lot—her curly dark brown hair swishes around her. Compared to her, the boy is completely motionless except for the occasional eye roll or arching eyebrow.

I try to grab my drink and slip away, but the barista looks right at me, her light brown eyes freezing me on the spot. "Mona, right?" I nod, clutching my drink a little closer to my chest. "What are your thoughts on poems?"

I glance between her and the guy, but neither of them gives me any context. Is this what they argue about all the time? If they do, I'm not sure who's on what side of the argument. And I don't know whose side I'd rather be on. The girl seems nice enough, but I'm pretty sure she can bulldoze anyone with just one look with her piercing brown eyes if brown eyes can even be described as piercing. The guy looks the exact opposite with his golden brown hair and gray eyes that are somehow not piercing. I have a weird urge to not say anything that might hurt him.

In the end, I give my honest answer: "I think poetry can be okay."

The guy flashes me a grin while the girl groans. He hits her lightly in the arm. "Told you."

She waves him off, turning back to me. Despite what I think, her look doesn't bulldoze me. In fact, it puts me at ease as the color softens with her smile. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised considering where we are."

I offer a tight-lipped smile. "Does that mean you don't like poetry..." I glance at her name tag. "Clara?"

"I like some poetry." She jabs her thumb at the guy. "Just not as much as Nathan does. He assumes everyone loves it."

Nathan shrugs, resting his elbow on the counter. "What's not to like about poetry?"

Clara holds up a hand, listing reasons off her fingers. "It's overly complicated. The words are flowery. You have to read it too many times to understand it. Most poets are pretentious." She gives Nathan a pointed look with that one. "And you like it, so that means it's stupid."

Nathan nods slowly before turning to me with an amused smile. "Well, I'm glad I'm meeting another pretentious, flowery, complicated poet."

I shake my head, waving my hand in front of me. "Oh, no. I like to read poetry, but I can't really write it."

His eyes dim a little, but he still offers me a smile. "Have you ever been to the open mic nights here? They're usually Saturdays at six. You can come to the one tomorrow if you want."

I glance to the far corner of the room where a microphone is set up. There are mini LED spotlights pointed right at it. They're off right now, but I can imagine it'd be hard to take your focus off of anyone standing there once they're on.

Clara turns to me, her eyes lighting up. "You should come, Mona. Nathan always reads one of his poems, and we can make fun of him together."

For a moment, I feel static go through my head. This feels strangely familiar, but I can't decide what about it is making me go through déjà vu. Before I can figure it out or fully get back into the moment, Clara's smile slips.

She turns away, muttering, "Or not..."

I open my mouth to answer, but she's already heading for the door marked "Employees Only." My chest tightens, and I curl in on myself as I shut my mouth and look down at my hot chocolate. I think there was a time when people would've said I was as fiery as my hair or as cold as my eyes. I don't know if I was ever fiery, but I think I was cold. And I think that's still true now.

"Your shift isn't over yet," Nathan calls after her.

Clara doesn't even look over her shoulder when she replies, "Owner's son's friend privileges."

Nathan shakes his head as the door swings shut behind her. He turns to me with an eye roll. "So that's Clara..."

I force out a soft laugh. "She seems really sure of herself." Good for her.

Nathan nods. "Oh. Definitely."

I lift the mug to my lips, eyeing Nathan through the steam. "So owner's son..?"

"That's me." He gestures around us with a smile. "My mom owns the place."

I look around like I'm really seeing everything for the first time. "That's cool. I take it she likes poetry?"

Nathan laughs, raking his hand through his hair. "That's an understatement, but yeah. She tries to get people into it, too. I was her first victim."

I arch an eyebrow, lowering myself onto the stool next to Nathan's. I clutch the mug, letting the warmth seep into me. "So Clara's not a victim?"

"Clara is... different..." Nathan rests his elbow on the wooden countertop. "She doesn't hate poetry as much as she says." He holds up a hand, his eyes widening. "Just don't tell her I said that."

A laugh escapes me, but it feels strained. This feels familiar, too... I clear my throat, taking a sip. "I'll keep that in mind."

I find myself grabbing my things from my table and moving to the counter to sit and talk to Nathan. He goes into detail about how he got into poetry and how it's a part of his life. When he asks about me, I deflect the conversation back to him, taking him in every time he talks. The way his gray eyes—which are really more like silver—light up when he's talking about poetry. The way they darken when he brings up something he doesn't particularly like. And how gentle they are in between.

"Do you need to take that?" Nathan asks.

I blink. "What?"

He gestures to my phone on the counter as it rings and vibrates. I blink again, furrowing my eyebrows as I slide it toward me. It's Hannah. I set my mug down and pick up my phone, walking a distance away for a sense of privacy.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Are you on your way home?" Hannah asks.

There's the slightest quiver in her voice, and I can just see her pacing the kitchen. But why would she—Oh. I stare at the time on my phone. It's fifteen minutes to five. Has it really been over an hour since I started talking to Nathan?

"Yeah, I'm on my way," I say. "I'll be right there. Don't worry." Please is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back.

Hannah lets out a breath. "Okay. I'll see you soon. I'll let you know if Mom, Dad, and Kate arrive before you."

"Got it. I'll see you."

I hang up and stare at the time on my phone before tucking it away. I head back to the counter. Nathan looks at me expectantly, and I offer him a smile. "I have to go."

It feels like the corners of his mouth twitch down, but he nods and smiles at me. "No worries. It was great talking to you, Mona. See you at the open mic tomorrow?"

Oh, right. We were talking about that. "Oh, I—"

My phone chimes. I pull it back out and glance at the screen.

Mom: Can't wait to see you again! Let's catch up in the next few weeks during your winter break. Dad and Kate say they love you.

My phone chimes again.

Kate: I didn't say what Mom said I said, but I'll see you.

I reread Kate's text a few more times, not sure if I want to smile or frown. There's so much of Morgan in Kate, it's insane. They're more twins than Morgan and I have ever been. So if I can't see or talk to Morgan, at least I have Kate.

At least I still have two siblings.

"You okay?" Nathan asks.

I blink, looking up. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and he's sitting forward like that'll help him read me better. I swallow, letting my hands drop to my sides.

"I'm okay," I say. "I just have to go."

He nods, but the crease between his eyebrows stays. "I'll let you head out." He stands and walks towards the door Clara went through earlier. He waves and smiles. "See you tomorrow."

Before I can say anything, he's already gone. See him tomorrow... I don't even know if I'm going to the open mic or if I want to go. Or if I have time to go with my family in town. I look down at my phone, my eyes zeroing in on the time. Ten minutes to five.

I grab my things and head for the door. I'll think about it later. Right now, there's too much going on in my head. But there's always room for one more thought: Morgan.

I check the time again: 4:51 PM, December 19. It's been about eleven months and fourteen hours since Morgan died.