WHERE THE HEART IS

Months turned into years. What started as a forced companionship slowly began to feel... normal. Ivy became a part of everything — my home, my school, and in some quiet way, my life. We studied together, grew together, and understood each other without needing many words.

She was no longer just "the girl who couldn't speak" to others. To me, she became Ivy — stubborn, sensitive, strong in ways no one noticed. Her comfort in silence was something I had grown to respect. And even though I never admitted it, I liked having her around.

We shared classrooms through middle school, celebrated small wins, and faced bigger challenges. There were days when we fought and days we barely spoke. But no matter what, she was always there. And so was I.

It was now our tenth grade. Our final year before everything changed. Our parents had left for a business trip, leaving us under the care of our housemaids.

It was half past seven. Usually, Ivy would be at the table by now, ready for breakfast. When she didn't show up, I asked one of the maids to check on her. But something didn't feel right. I stopped the maid and went to check myself.

She was sitting in a corner of her room, crying silently.

I had never seen her cry like this — not in the past five years.

"What happened? Why are you crying?" I signed, rushing to her.

She pulled me closer and pointed to the bloodstains on her skirt. Her hands trembled.

It was her first period. She didn't know what it was. 

"It's okay," I signed back, trying to stay calm. "It's nothing bad. I'm here. Don't worry."

I explained everything to her gently. I called the maid and asked her to bring sanitary pads and help Ivy clean up. She rested next to me afterward, curled up in pain. I stayed with her the entire day, doing whatever I could to comfort her.

I informed Mom. She asked me to let Ivy rest and not send her to school until she felt better. So we both stayed home for the next three days. Slowly, Ivy started to feel like herself again.

School caught up fast. Being our final year, we had assignments, deadlines, and exams to prepare for. It was intense. Ivy and I began studying harder than ever.

To my surprise, she was doing great in math — the very subject she once struggled with.

Our sleep schedules were turned upside down. We stayed up late, woke up early. I was used to this — I'm more of a night owl. But Ivy was neither. She couldn't stay up or wake early unless I dragged her out of bed.

I usually don't work this hard. But I knew if I didn't, Ivy wouldn't either. So, at least for her, I kept going.

Finally, the day of our boards arrived. We had prepared for this for months. After the exams, both Ivy and I felt confident. We did well.

Once everything was over, Ivy came up to me and sighed, "I want to go on a vacation."

"Let's ask Mom and Dad," I said.

We tried to convince them. I promised, "If you can't make it, I'll take care of Ivy myself."

Eventually, they agreed.

As I started looking for places to visit, I asked Ivy if she had anywhere special in mind.

She signed, "I want to visit my hometown. I haven't been there in years."

What she didn't say — but I sensed in her silence — was something deeper. Ivy was adopted. She never really spoke of her past, but sometimes, in quiet moments, I would catch her staring out the window, lost in thought. She remembered her mother's gentle voice, the smell of the kitchen in the evenings, and especially the Jacaranda tree that stood tall outside their old home. Its purple flowers used to fall on her as she sat underneath it, making her feel like she was part of something magical.

She missed that place. Missed the roots she had been pulled away from. She never complained or expressed it, but the longing stayed in her eyes. This wasn't just a vacation for her — it was a memory return.

I paused. If I told Mom and Dad the truth, they wouldn't allow it.

"We'll try," I said.

I told my parents we were visiting a nearby town and would be back in two days. I also asked them not to send any caretakers.

"Please," I added, "We'll be fine."

Dad hesitated but finally said, "Fine. But call us if anything happens."

We packed our bags. They dropped us at the railway station.

To get to Ivy's hometown, we needed to board a different train. I asked my driver to leave. Then, Ivy and I headed to the right platform and boarded the train.

We were finally on our way to where it all began.

We took our train to Emberfall, Ivy's hometown. The boarding display said it would take twelve hours to reach. As we settled in, Ivy leaned on my shoulder, her eyes wide with excitement before slowly drifting to sleep.

I stayed awake, unwilling to risk missing our stop. The scenery rolled by in streaks of green and gold, but my gaze never left her. The way her head rested gently against my shoulder, the way her fingers curled around the edge of her scarf — there was a quiet softness in her presence that I had never fully noticed before.

The breeze from the open window danced through the strands of her hair, sending them fluttering across her face like silk threads caught in a dream. Her long lashes quivered slightly with each movement of air, and the way her lips parted in her sleep — calm, unguarded — stirred something strange and unfamiliar inside me.

She had been there for as long as I could remember. Through every part of my childhood, Ivy had existed — in the same house, same school, same life. I used to think of her as a friend, someone I could rely on. I never really saw her as a sister, not truly. But even then, this… this was different.

She wasn't just a girl I grew up with anymore. Not to me. Something had changed.

And that thought scared me more than I wanted to admit.

What was this feeling? Why now?

I didn't have answers. Only a silence that hummed louder than any question I'd ever asked myself.

Just then, she stirred awake, blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Are we there yet?" she signed.

"Only five hours in," I said softly.

When I was still caught in my thoughts, her voice — even in silence — pulled me back. I could see how excited she was, how eager she looked even after just waking up. And yet, beneath that, something twisted inside me. I felt nervous. Restless.

I wasn't like this before.

I wish Ivy wasn't the reason for it… But a part of me knew she was.

She smiled and leaned back onto my shoulder again. I didn't move. I just sat there, still, lost — between memories of our childhood and feelings I could no longer explain.