Gerbera knows that she will not survive this winter.
She can feel the weariness in her bones, the helplessness clouding her brain. Even still, she continues fighting. She pushes as hard as she can, struggling to stay conscious. On some days, she remembers being strong enough to sit up, to talk and chatter with Chrysanthemum, who stays at her bedside no matter how many times the doctors and her parents tell her she can’t.
And even now, even in this tryst, they call life, her sister is still as bright as the sun. She is not deterred. Bullheaded. Will as thick as a rock. Someday, Gerbera thinks her stubbornness will be the death of her. On other days, when Gerbera can’t stop the negative thoughts from coming, she wonders what will become of her sister when she is gone.
They have always been together, even when they are not. They are two halves of the same soul. Gerbera flips through her sketchbook, smiling down at the various paintings of her older sister. Eyes bright and blue and clear. Expressive. Would there ever be anyone else with as much passion as her? Scribbly crayon drawings from when they were both children. Silly sketches filled into the corners, flowers and bumblebees and apples and pears.
Tears drop onto the pages, smearing the color.
She closes the book as coughs rack through her body. She can't stop, pain wracking through her chest, pain making her bones numb and weak. Tired. Suddenly, she's so tired. Why is she so tired?
She wants to rest now.
Her sister awakes with a start, jostling in surprise. She is quick to action, grabbing a small towel, dampening it, and swapping it for the one on Gerberas forehead. “Sestra!" Screams Chrysanthemum, every bit as stern as their mother. Her sister pushes her back down onto the bed. Their eyes meet, dull browns and bright blues. So different. So alike.
Two halves of the same soul.
Gerbera closes her eyes and sleeps.
She does not wake back up, no matter how much Chrysanthemum cries and screams and begs for her to do so.