Noci a dni
**Hotel Room, Late Evening** *The soft hum of the air‑conditioner mixes with the distant thrum of traffic. Two sisters—*Lena* (twenty‑three, bright eyes that have seen too much) and *Mira* (seventeen, still catching the after‑glow of childhood—*settle onto the faded couch, a shared suitcase open on the floor, its contents spilling like memories.*) --- **Lena:** *(Glancing at the nightstand lamp, flicking it on)* You ever think about how different it would have been if we’d been born… somewhere else? Like, not here, not in *our* house? **Mira:** *(Shrugs, tracing the edge of a pillow with her thumb)* I think about it sometimes. But then I see you, the way you still stay up late reading those old journals, and I wonder… maybe it’s not the place, but the people. **Lena:** *(A faint laugh, half‑sad)* That’s why it feels like an endless rehearsal—being a girl, being a sister. I’ve been acting in this play since Mom woke me up at three to practice my “good girl” voice. **Mira:** *(Leans in, eyes widening)* Do you remember the first time you tried on Mom’s heels? I think you’d fallen a thousand times trying to balance, but you never complained. **Lena:** *(Smiles, the memory softening the ache)* I fell so hard I thought the floor would swallow me. I was twelve, and Mom said, “Girl, you’ll learn to walk in them—just like you’ll learn to walk through life.” She meant it like a promise, but the world kept adding more weight. **Mira:** *(Nods, voice low)* You always said “walk” because we could never *run*. And then there was the… (pauses) *the thing* that night at Aunt Eva’s birthday—when everyone laughed and we were supposed to be “the perfect family”. **Lena:** *(Her breath catches, eyes flicking to the dark window)* I’ve been holding that in for too long. You’re right. It’s the secret that hangs between us—like a curtain we both pull back just a little, but never all the way. **Mira:** *(Swallows, voice trembling)* Are you… are you still…? **Lena:** *(A sigh, heavy with years)* I’m still scared of the silence. The night we found Dad’s letter in the attic—half of it torn, the rest a confession. We promised each other we’d never say it out loud, that it would stay in the attic, hidden like the dust on the old wooden beams. **Mira:** *(Eyes fill, glistening)* And you bore it all… the shame, the anger—because you thought it was *your* burden to protect me. I thought being your little sister meant I could be the one you shielded. **Lena:** *(Reaches out, hands trembling, and squeezes Mira’s)* The hardest part of being a girl is learning that we’re expected to be quiet, to be caring, to be “strong” without breaking. The hardest part of being a sister is holding that quiet *for* each other, even when our own hearts are cracking. **Mira:** *(Whispers, tears escaping)* I’ve felt the weight of it every day—the expectation to be graceful, to smile, to not ask “why”. But I’ve also felt the joy… like when Mom taught us to braid each other’s hair and we’d sit for hours, whispering secrets we could never say out loud. Those moments made me feel… alive. **Lena:** *(A soft laugh, tinged with triumph)* Remember the night we stayed up, just after school, making a fort out of blankets and reading those old comics from our dad’s drawer? We pretended we were princesses, rescuing dragons, forgetting the world outside the hotel walls. That’s when I first realized: being a girl can also be *rebellious*, a quiet uprising against the rules written for us. **Mira:** *(Sniffles, then chuckles)* And the time we sneaked out to the rooftop and watched the sunrise—how the sky turned pink, and we promised to never let anyone—anyone—take that sunrise away from us. **Lena:** *(Pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, hands it to Mira)* I kept this—Dad’s half‑written note. He wrote, “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to hurt you.” It’s all we have left… a broken apology, a reminder that secrets have a way of leaking. **Mira:** *(Takes the paper, fingers trembling)* I think… we can finally let the secret breathe. Not because it will fix everything, but because holding it together makes us both weaker. If we share it, we can turn that weight into… into something we carry together. **Lena:** *(Eyes meet, fierce and tender)* That’s what sisters do—share the load, even the hidden ones. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being honest. It’s about saying, “I’m here, I see you, and I’m scared too.” **Mira:** *(Nods, a small, resolute smile forming)* And maybe that’s the hardest and the most beautiful part of being a girl—learning that we can be both fragile and fierce, together. **Lena:** *(Leans back, the lamp casting a warm circle around them)* So, how hard is it to be a girl? Hard enough to make us learn to speak, to listen, to love, even when the world expects us to stay silent. How hard is it to be a sister? Hard enough to carry each other through night and day, sharing the secret, the joy, the quiet rebellions that make us who we are. **Mira:** *(Quietly, eyes shining)* And beautiful enough that, even here in this hotel room, with the world outside rushing past, we can still find a way to be… us. *The lamp flickers, then steadies, as the sisters sit side by side, the paper between them a bridge from the past to whatever tomorrow brings.*
