Second Place

The chicken smelled of rosemary and garlic, golden and glistening on the platter. Steam curled up from the mashed potatoes, buttery and smooth, while green beans sat limp in a bowl no one had touched yet. The dining room light buzzed faintly, casting everything in a warm glow that felt fake, too cheerful.

Alani sat hunched over her plate, cutting her chicken into tiny, precise squares. Across from her, Aria’s laugh rang like a bell—light, effortless. Their father chuckled along, and their mother leaned toward the guest at the end of the table, her old friend Marcy, who hadn’t stopped smiling since she arrived.

“Can you believe it?” her mother said, tilting her head proudly toward Aria. “She’s the spitting image of me at thirteen. So slim, so graceful. She hardly even has to try.”

Marcy’s eyes sparkled with approval. “She really does, Ana. Beautiful bone structure. That figure, why, she could model if she wanted to.”

Aria ducked her head, pretending to be embarrassed, though Alani noticed the way her lips twitched, pleased.

Alani pressed her fork too hard into her potatoes, squashing them into paste. Her mother didn’t notice.

“And this one,” her mother added with a casual flick of her hand toward Alani, “she’s always studying. Not quite the looker Aria is, but that’s fine. Everyone has their role.”

Alani’s stomach dropped. The words weren’t new, but they still stung, each one leaving an invisible bruise.

Marcy gave a polite nod, then turned her eyes directly to Alani. “Sweetheart, you’ve got such a pretty face. If you just lost a little weight, you’d look exactly like your sister. Twins should match, don’t you think?”

The words hit harder than the food on the table, harder than anything else.

Alani swallowed, her throat dry. “I- I like studying,” she muttered, barely above a whisper.

Marcy chuckled, patting her napkin on her lap. “Of course you do, dear. Nothing wrong with that. But imagine the two of you, side by side; perfect little mirrors. You’d be unstoppable.”

Her mother smiled approvingly, like Marcy had said something wise. “That’s what I always tell her.”

Alani’s fork slipped from her hand and clattered against her plate. Everyone glanced her way for a second, then turned back to their conversation.

She wasn’t in the room anymore. She was just the shadow sitting next to her sister’s light.

Upstairs, she locked her door and leaned against it, her chest tight, breath ragged.

Her room was neat, too neat. Certificates lined the walls, proof of every spelling bee, math competition, and essay contest she’d crushed. On her desk sat the framed “Student of the Year” award from last spring.

None of it meant anything.

She ripped the award off the desk and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a crack, the frame splintering.

Alani was born four minutes later, a little heavier, softer around the edges. Those four minutes had stretched into an entire lifetime of being “the other twin.” Aria got the compliments, the camera clicks, the Instagram-worthy smiles. Alani got the polite silence and backhanded remarks.

Her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, clutching her stomach like she could hold it all in: the ache, the shame, the weight of everything her mother and Marcy had said.

Her sobs came hard and fast, tearing through her chest. She tried to choke them back, biting her fist until she tasted blood, but they spilled out anyway, jagged and ugly.

And then the voices started.

You’re making me look bad, Alani, Aria’s voice snapped in her head, sharp as glass. A memory: last summer, when Aria refused to wear matching swimsuits because “people will think I’m big like you.”

Another flash: her aunt at a birthday party, leaning down with cake-sweet breath. Such a beautiful girl. Just a shame about the weight.

Her gym teacher, after the mile run: You’d be faster if you dropped a few pounds. Bet your sister doesn’t struggle like that.

Her mother, taking her and Aria out on a field trip: Let’s just leave the ice-cream for Aria, honey.

Missed award ceremonies and graduations.

Waiting hours for Aria to finish her photoshoots.

Each voice layered on top of the other, pictures flashing in between, until her ears rang. She pressed her palms over them, but the memories pushed through anyway, overlapping, louder and louder.

She stumbled to the mirror above her dresser. Against her better judgment, she flipped it up. Her reflection stared back- red eyes, blotchy skin, cheeks puffier than Aria’s had ever been. Her shirt clung to her middle in all the wrong places.

“Ugly,” she whispered. “Ugly, ugly, ugly.”

Her hands shot out and slammed the mirror flat against the dresser, but the image burned in her brain, refusing to disappear.

She collapsed onto the carpet, pulling her knees up tight, curling in on herself like she could shrink small enough to vanish.

Her nails dug into her thighs. Harder. Deeper. Little half-moon shapes pressed into the skin, sharp enough to sting. She pressed harder still, as if she could claw away the softness, carve herself into something new. Maybe if she pressed hard enough, the extra parts of her would cut away and leave behind the wanted version of her.

But the flesh didn’t disappear. Her body stayed stubbornly there, solid and wrong.

Frustration ripped through her. She clawed at her legs again, tears spilling down her face, sobs wracking her chest until she could barely breathe.

Why couldn’t they go? She thought desperately.

You’re making me look bad, Alani.

Just lose a little weight, dear.

Not quite the looker Aria is.

Shame about the weight.

She gasped for air, nails biting harder, holding on as though she could tear the words out of her skin.

Her sobs slowed into hiccups, but the voices didn’t stop; they just echoed softer, circling her like vultures.

Her body trembled, drained of strength, and still she clung to herself, nails in her flesh.

Finally, exhaustion pressed heavier than the shame. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her breathing shallow.

She fell asleep like that- curled tight, nails buried deep- her last thought a flicker of desperation:

Make me disappear.