The hum of the ultra-low temperature freezer was the only sound left in the world. It was 9:00 PM in Manhattan, and the city outside was a chaotic vein of light and noise, but in here, in the Oncology Research Wing, time was suspended in sterile white.
I caught my reflection in the glass of the fume hood. Dr. Caroline Wilson, lead researcher on a glioblastoma project that was eating my life in bite-sized pieces. I looked like a ghost haunting her own machinery—black-rimmed glasses sliding down a nose slick with oil, chestnut hair pulled back in a bun so tight it was giving me a tension headache, and eyes that hadn’t seen a full eight hours of sleep since the grant proposal season began.
“Dr. Wilson? Caroline?”
I jumped, nearly dropping a pipette. It was Jessica, my junior researcher, hovering in the doorway with her coat already buttoned to her chin. She gave me that look—the pitying one reserved for the brilliant but socially anorexic.
“You should go home,” she urged softly. ” The cells will still be dividing tomorrow.”
“You’re right,” I sighed, stripping off my latex gloves with a snap. “I’m just… chasing a variable. Go on, Jessica. Goodnight.”
I made the weary pilgrimage home, my body swaying with the rhythm of the subway car. The air underground smelled of ozone and stale pretzels. To distract myself from the exhaustion gnawing at my bones, I made the mistake of pulling out my phone.
My thumb hovered over the icon, a muscle memory of masochism. I opened Instagram.
And there she was. Jennifer.
My sister. The Golden Child. The Head Buyer for a luxury boutique on Fifth Avenue. Her life was a curated gallery of beige filters, champagne flutes, and effortless perfection. The latest post was a selfie: Jennifer, blonde hair cascading in loose waves, wearing a silk robe, holding a mimosa. #AnniversaryPrep #Blessed #BlueGardenTomorrow.
I felt a phantom ache in my chest, a dull throb that had nothing to do with work stress. These posts were digital shrapnel. They didn’t just show her happiness; they highlighted the crater of our history.
