I lost her when she lost herself. We didn't fight anymore because we didn't talk. We buried our childhood secrets in the backyard next to summer days spent building dirt homes for rolly pollies found under turned-up stones and running barefoot through the sprinkler. We didn't have movie nights anymore. She took those away from me when she decided she would rather do things alone. I think she took a lot of things away from me. She took away memories of late-night, string-light boardwalk strolls where the salty wind cut through air thick with the smell of warm, sugar-topped funnel cake and cajun curly fries. She took away hours spent bent over a Monopoly board surrounded by a half-eaten bag of Doritos for Dad, a plate of watermelon for Mom, and a bag of strawberry sour strips for me and her to share, lit only by the dim kitchen light. She took away baskets of warm Italian bread dipped in peppered olive oil and bowls spilling over with white wine linguine curling around a sea of buttered shrimp and scallops... my family's favorite. She was never hungry enough to go out to eat, so we stayed in. But when Dad called her down to the kitchen for dinner, she never came. And she continued to not come.

It's no surprise that we didn't hang out much over the summer--the fantasy I had of us going on midnight drives for McDonald's fries to dip into dripping vanilla cones as we sat in the car to talk about things that were too deep and dark for the daytime fading away with every day she kept herself locked in her room. I imagine that one of those talks would have been about how important we were to each other, only realizing it now that I was about to leave for college. But we didn't have a chance to realize how much we would miss each other, perhaps because there was no one there to miss at all.

I didn't hate her. She's my sister, I would say, as if our genetic relationship alone was reason enough for me to convince myself that I didn't. But I don't think I loved her either. But she's your sister, my parents would say, as if our genetic relationship alone was reason enough for them to convince me that I should.

Should I? Should I have loved her when she screamed at my parents about how much she hated them for not being able to give her what she thought she needed? Should I have loved her when she used her depression and anxiety as a gun she held to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless my parents agreed to cancel therapy, unless Dad promised her the car on Saturday, unless Mom let her have dinner in her room, unless my brother was grounded for eating a stick of her gum? Should I have loved her for making everyone I love walk on eggshells all the time, catering to her every whim, and snuffing out every flicker of joy until we were left as cold, hollow, and insecure as she was?

We'll always be linked by the biological ties that keep us handcuffed together. And I won't strain against them or think of trying to squeeze my hand through the hole and break loose. I'll even be there to hold her hand from time to time, when she needs it the most. I think it's been helping. She's getting better, at least that's what I've heard. Maybe one day she'll even feel better enough to feel the creak of the boardwalk underneath her flip-flopped feet again, to share a bag of sour strips again, to share a soupy secret with again, to sing a melody in the car again. But if that day comes, forgive me if I don't sing along.