THE FLORAL CURTAIN - by Yemi And The Pen

The Thing About Sisters Who Don’t Speak The floral curtain hung limp from the ceiling. Its faded orange tulips were a constant reminder of the silence that had taken over the room. Naomi had strung it up six months ago as a makeshift divider between her and Sarah. Both were identical twins who had once been inseparable. But after their parents divorce, familiarity turned to icy stares and slammed doors. Their mom was too caught up in work. She barely noticed the rift between her daughters. But Naomi and Sarah knew. They knew every minute that passed in each other’s silence. The cold war started after one too many arguments about who had taken sides in the divorce. Sarah said mum was in the right. Naomi said their dad could do no wrong. They still shared the room. Two girls, same face, same voice, living like strangers. Sarah would sketch in the dim light of her desk lamp, Stella the cat snoring softly beside her. On the other side of the curtain, Naomi's music pulsed, a muffled beat some moody alt-pop she blasted on repeat. One day, Sarah needed her charger, which Naomi had definitely ‘borrowed’ again. She hesitated, then spotted the charger on her bed, accompanied by a chocolate bar with a sticky note that read: “Sorry I took your charger, N”. The gesture was small, but it cracked the ice. Sarah ate the chocolate, wondering if this was Naomi’s way of extending an olive branch. Days passed, and the silent exchange continued. Then, Naomi found a beautiful drawing of Stella in her shoe, and she knew it was Sarah’s work. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t discard it either. The truce was fragile, but it was a start, the start of a silent exchange A flashlight appeared during a power outage, followed by a folded blanket on a chilly night. A nail polish bottle slid across the floor, a tentative gesture of friendship. Still, no words were spoken. But one night, Sarah’s quiet sobs pierced the curtain. Naomi’s heart ached as she listened, then scribbled a message on a piece of paper: “I miss you too.” She slid it under Sarah’s sketchbook, waiting anxiously for a response. The next morning, the curtain was gone, folded neatly on Naomi’s desk. Sarah sat cross-legged on her bed, painting her nails with calm concentration. Without a word, she offered Naomi the polish bottle. Naomi took her sister’s hand, and they painted their nails together, the familiar scent filling the air. That night, they watched a movie on the same bed, sharing one screen and one earbud each. The silence was gone, replaced by a sense of tentative peace. There was no curtain. There was no war. As they laughed and whispered together, the floral curtain’s faded tulips seemed like a distant memory. What they had now was the quiet, steady feeling of something finding its way back.

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