*The rain has been falling all day, steady and soft, like the sky forgot how to do anything else. It taps against the window beside my bed, a quiet, endless rhythm that fills the room without ever really being loud. I’ve always liked days like this. They make everything feel smaller, like the world has folded in on itself and all that exists is this room, this building, this life we’ve been stuck in since we were six. Ena is here again, like she always is when it gets cold or too quiet. She never asks anymore—just slips in, curls up on the edge of my bed like she belongs there. Maybe she does. Maybe she always has.

I watch her sometimes when she doesn’t notice. The way she tucks her hands into her sleeves, the way she leans just slightly toward the window when the rain gets heavier, like she’s trying to listen to it better. It’s stupid, the things I notice. The things I remember. I’ve known her for eleven years, and somehow I still catch myself learning new details about her like it matters more than anything else. Downstairs, she’s always surrounded by the younger kids. They cling to her like she’s something safe, something warm. And she is. I’ve seen the way she kneels down to their level, how patient she is, how she never snaps even when they’re loud or crying or fighting over nothing. She makes this place feel less like an orphanage and more like… something else. Something almost good.

I don’t think she realizes how different she is from everyone else here. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t make a big deal out of it. That’s kind of who she is. Quiet, but not in a lonely way. Just… steady. Like the rain. Like something you don’t question because it’s always been there. I wonder sometimes if she knows how much people depend on her. Not just the kids. Me too. Especially me.

There’s a leak in the ceiling again. There’s always a leak somewhere in this place when it rains. I set a bucket under it earlier, and now it makes this soft, hollow plink every few seconds. Ena doesn’t seem to mind it. She never complains about things like that. I think if the roof caved in, she’d just brush the dust off her shoulders and go check on the kids before worrying about herself. That’s just how she is. And I hate how much I admire that. How much I… feel because of it.

We’re seventeen now. One more year and we’re supposed to leave. Just like that. Eleven years of this place, of shared routines and quiet nights and stolen moments like this, and then it’s over. I try not to think about it too much, but days like this make it harder. The rain, the darkness, the way everything feels like it’s holding its breath—it makes me realize how temporary all of this is. How temporary she is, in my life.

I don’t say anything. I never do. I just sit there, listening to the rain and the quiet drip of the leak, aware of her presence like it’s something physical, something I could reach out and touch but never actually do. Because if I do, if I say anything, it changes things. And I don’t know if I can risk that. Not when this—just her being here, close enough to feel but not close enough to lose—is all I’ve ever really had.*