I am Elara

I love mornings. Especially when the sun comes up all warm and bright, painting the sky with pinks and oranges and yellows that make my tummy feel all fuzzy, like the day is going to be the best day ever. The light peeks through the curtains, making tiny dust sparkles dance in the air, and everything feels soft and new.

I always wake up before Ori—well, Orion, but I call him Ori because it’s shorter and cuter, and also because I said so. I like having the room to myself for a bit, just so I can stretch my arms and wiggle my toes and roll around without worrying about bumping into him.

Our room is big, but not that big. There’s our beds, a big wooden wardrobe where Mama puts all our clothes, and a little shelf filled with books—mostly Ori’s books, because he likes those more than toys.

Sometimes, I sneak over to his side of the room, tiptoeing super-duper quietly, my feet barely making a sound on the floor.

I peek at him under his blanket, all curled up like a little cat, his dark hair messy and sticking out in funny ways. He always looks so peaceful, like nothing in the whole big world could ever bother him. I lean down and whisper, “Still sleeping, sleepyhead.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

I giggle, clapping my hands over my mouth so I don’t wake him up too soon. Ori never wakes up fast like me. He likes sleeping. A lot.

Most mornings, Mama comes in to wake us up. She smells like flowers and sunshine, and her voice is like a song.

“Rise and shine, my little stars,” she says as she pulls back the curtains, and the sunlight whooshes in like it’s happy to see us.

I love it when she calls us that. It makes my heart feel all warm and floaty, like I really am a star. I think Ori likes it too, even though he just blinks at her like a sleepy owl and buries his face in his pillow.

Breakfast is busy, with Mama moving around the kitchen, flipping pancakes or stirring porridge, her braid swinging behind her. The whole house smells like butter and honey, and my tummy growls like a little monster.

I talk a lot while we eat, stuffing my cheeks with food and telling Mama all the things I want to do today—like climb the biggest tree in the garden or go on a super-secret mission to find bugs.

Ori just listens, chewing his porridge slowly, nodding sometimes, like he’s really paying attention, even if I might be saying a little bit of nonsense. But that’s the best thing about Ori—he always listens.

“Orion, let’s play hide-and-seek today,” I say one morning, my mouth full of toast. The crumbs get everywhere, but I don’t care.

Ori looks up from his porridge, swallows, and nods. “Okay. But you always hide in the same places,” he says, his voice all calm and knowing.

I puff out my cheeks, pretending to be upset. “That’s because they’re good hiding spots!”

Ori smiles, that tiny, secret smile that makes me want to try harder. “I think you can find better ones if you try.”

And that’s the thing about Ori. He always makes me feel like I can do something, even when I’m not sure.

Ori is… different. He’s my twin, but sometimes it feels like he’s from another world. I’m loud. I love running and jumping, and I get excited about everything. Ori, though… he’s quiet, and he’s always thinking.

Sometimes, I catch him staring out the window, and I don’t get it. Like, what’s so interesting out there? The sky is just blue. The clouds are just clouds. But Ori stares like he’s seeing something else, something I can’t see.

I wish I could see the world the way he does. Maybe then I’d understand why he likes reading those big books with no pictures, or why he never gets mad when I poke him over and over just to see if he’ll say “Elara, stop.” (He always does.)

One time, Uncle Darius gave us a puzzle. I tried really, really hard to solve it, but the pieces wouldn’t fit, and it made my head all hot and grumpy.

I almost threw it. But Ori? He just looked at it for a little bit, moved some pieces, and—bam!—solved it, just like that, like it was easy.

“How do you do that?” I ask, my arms crossed, feeling all huffy and amazed at the same time.

Ori just shrugs, his tiny fingers still resting on the puzzle he solved like it was nothing. “I think about how it’s made,” he says, like that explains everything.

“If you understand that, you can figure it out.”

I squint at him. I thought about the puzzle a lot—really hard, actually—and it didn’t magically fix itself for me. I don’t really get what he means, but it sounds super smart, so I nod like I do. “Mhm. Yeah. That makes sense,” I say, even though it totally doesn’t.

Mama is the best. She makes the yummiest food, tells the best stories, and even when she tells us off for something, it never feels mean. It’s like sunshine—warm and soft, not like the scary, boomy voice Uncle Darius sometimes uses when he’s pretending to be a pirate.

I love it when she smiles, but I really love it when she makes Ori smile.

Ori doesn’t smile a lot—not like me. I smile all the time because everything is fun or exciting or silly. But Ori? He’s always thinking, always looking at things like there’s some big, secret thing hiding inside them. But when Mama ruffles his hair or hugs him tight, I see it—the tiniest little smile, like he forgot to be all serious.

One morning, after breakfast, I see Mama sitting by the window, staring outside like she’s thinking about something big.

The sunlight makes her hair all golden and pretty, and she looks like one of the princesses from my bedtime stories. I don’t like it when grown-ups get too quiet like that, so I run over and climb into her lap, snuggling close.

“What are you thinking about, Mama?” I ask, tilting my head up to look at her.

She looks down at me with those soft, warm eyes and brushes back my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Just about how lucky I am to have you two,” she says. “You and Orion… you’re both so special.”

I beam at that, because I love being special. But then, I lean in real close and whisper, “Even if Ori is a little strange?”

Mama laughs, a soft, sweet laugh that makes my heart feel all warm and fuzzy. She smells like cinnamon and honey, and I want to stay right here forever.

“Especially because he’s a little strange,” she says. “He sees things differently, and that makes him unique. Just like you’re unique, my little sunshine.”

I think about that really hard, then nod. Mama’s always right. And I do like that Ori is different. It means there’s always something new to figure out about him—like how he always knows when I’m going to sneak up on him or how he never gets mad when I mess up his things (which only happens sometimes).

The day goes by in a blur of running and playing and Mama calling us in for snacks. The sun starts to dip lower, turning the sky into big, swirly colors—orange and pink and purple, like a painting that’s too pretty to touch. Ori and I sit on the porch together, our feet dangling, the cool breeze ruffling our hair.

I nudge him, poking his arm. “Hey, Ori,” I say. “Do you think we’ll always be together, like this?”

Ori turns to look at me with his quiet, thinking face, and I know he’s really thinking about it, not just saying whatever.

His eyes look all soft in the fading sunlight, and after a moment, he nods. “Yes, I think so. We’ll always be together.”

I grin. That’s all I needed to hear.

The crickets start singing, and the sky turns darker, but I don’t feel sleepy yet. Everything feels big and exciting and safe, all at the same time.

Mama is inside, probably humming while she tidies up. Ori is next to me, just like he always is. And even though he’s quiet and thinks about things too much and sometimes stares at the sky like it’s hiding a secret, I know one thing for sure—

As long as we’re together, everything will be just right. And I’ll always be there for him, even if it means dragging him outside to play when he’d rather stare at boring books.