They were twins — born from the same body, living two different sorrows. One carried illness, the other carried guilt. When a letter arrives wrapped in the scent of nasturtiums, one sister must face the truth she’s buried for years: love can be painful, and forgiveness even harder. A quiet story about loss, jealousy, unspoken love, and the haunting ties of sisterhood.

Chapter 1
A Memory in Bloom

— Goodbye…
Her voice rang out like a “hello” meant for tomorrow.
I quietly watched her walk away, swaying like the spring breeze.
In her hand, a cane — tapping against the ground with a rhythm of its own.
“Look,” she said, “the nasturtiums are blooming. Aren’t they lovely? Pick one for me…”
I looked around. I had never noticed nasturtiums here before. And yet now, branches burst open with blossoms. Gently, I picked the finest bud and handed it to her.
With weak, trembling fingers, she caressed the flower.
A soft breath escaped her.
“It smells beautiful… When you visit my grave, bring nasturtiums. Nothing else. Okay?”
“It’s too early to talk about death, little lady,” I said, trying to smile. “You’ve got a long life ahead.”
I didn’t believe my own words.
She didn’t reply. She only smiled, smelling the flower deeper.
“Lay me next to it someday…”
I wanted to say, ‘Why are you hurting me like this? Why use death to scare me?’ But I said nothing.
“When we get home, we’ll sew matching dresses. With nasturtiums. Just like before.”
She stayed silent. Inside, I knew she was counting the ways we were no longer the same.
My arms ached. Light things grow heavy when you hold them too long.
“Look — we’re home.”
I gently lowered her. She couldn’t stand, just sat on the ground, breath shallow.
I helped her to her chair.
“Stay tonight… please.”
Her voice trembled, pleading. I couldn’t say no.
“Open the window,” she said. “Let me see the bright world. I’m tired of the dark.”
I opened it.
The spring breeze carried in the scent of medicine, sorrow, and memory.
I wanted to cry.
I looked at her — eyes closed.
Was she asleep?
I touched her hair — wet with sweat.
“Sleep well, my nasturtium…”

Chapter 2
The Letter

— I’m sorry about your twin…
My friend’s words pull me out of the film of the past.
My eyes still gaze toward the window. The wind gently flutters the curtain.
— If you want, I can stay with you?
— No… I want to be with her.
I press the scarf, still smelling of nasturtiums, to my chest. My friend silently leaves. I lie on the bed that feels emptier without her.
As I reach for an extra pillow, a white envelope slips to the floor. I pick it up — the scent of nasturtium instantly surrounds me.
Inside: a small note and the dried flower — the same one.
I open the letter.

“My dear… Are you still changing pillowcases? (You’re smiling, I know it.) I’m going toward a light where pupils shine the same. Please don’t cry. I’m not mad you didn’t become my donor. I love you. I never said it when I was alive, did I? I’m tired. Maybe if you hadn’t left me that day out of jealousy, I could’ve lived longer. I’m not mad at you. (Strikethrough): Damn it, I am mad. I hate you. I wanted to live. At least until I was twenty-two.
You’re a coward. At least admit it after I’m gone.”

Even the nurse writing this down for me probably knows you better.
I know I’ve been cruel. I always blamed you for everything — my sickness, my loneliness, my blindness. Hurting you made me feel lighter somehow. But it never lasted. I liked watching you suffer with guilt. Because I was already walking toward death. We were twins — same body, different pain. When I fell, I wanted you to fall too. Do you see what a terrible person I was? I wanted you to be just as broken. I only ever wanted you to say:
‘It’s my fault. I left my sister alone. I’m the one to blame.’
But you always ran.
From guilt.
From me.
From truth.

Isn’t fate cruel?
When we were born, they thought you’d be the weak one.
I was the healthy twin.
But you lived. And I…
Our parents always took care of you more. You were the sick daughter.
I was jealous. I know it sounds silly, but…
I wanted to be sick too.
I thought being sick meant being loved. I envied you.
And you envied me. You wanted to get well. I wanted to fall apart.
Mom always said, ‘You’re strong, you’ll manage.’ You used to carry me. I made you — the sick sister — carry me. What a manipulative, selfish child I was.
I hurt myself on purpose.
I wanted bruises. I just wanted someone to notice me too.

Looking at me now…
I realize God gave me what I wished for. I always thought sickness meant love. I was wrong. You only understand the value of something when it’s gone.
Yes, I jumped from that tree on purpose.
I did. If I could turn back time — I’d never do it. That day, I had a school competition.
Everyone’s family was there — except mine.
You had one of your attacks again.
I was angry.
I thought, “Mom only needs her sick daughter.”
So I jumped. After that, you got better.
And I finally got our parents.
At first, I liked it. Then I began to suffer.
I blamed you for everything.
You ran away.
Forgive me, please.
I know you couldn’t be my donor.
I always knew.
Don’t blame yourself.
Just live.
I loved you.
I never said it out loud.
P.S.
When the nasturtiums bloom — remember me.”

I wanted to scream.
Inside me, something broke — like a dam collapsing.
But this time, my tears were silent.
“You didn’t know…” I whispered.
I held the letter to my chest, hands shaking.
“That day… I pretended to be sick.”
So our parents wouldn’t go to her competition.
I was jealous too.
Of the smart, healthy girl…
I curled up at the edge of the bed.
Now, no one’s here.
Just me, the letter… and the scent of nasturtiums.
“It was my fault… my fault…” — I murmured, lips trembling.
It was hard to admit.
But it was the truth.