The two were the same. The two were so different.

Writing, reading, seething, heaving.

Writing great.

Reading great.

Seething in pain.

Heaving pain.

Despite the similarities, they were individuals nonetheless.

One was content and knew what they wanted. One was happy and felt crowed with friends. One was insecure on the inside. One was gasping with anxieties. One was in the middle of a field looking up at the dawning sky.

The other was empty and unsure. The other was drained, null, and lonesome in the crowd of friendships. The other was confident despite that; relying on nihilism and their abilities in the field of cynicism and intellect. The other was gasping for something. Something to make them feel purpose. The other was in the middle of the field laying down, digging at the grass, ignoring the rising sun.

They were both broken. Broken by the trauma, broken by the betrayal, broken by the lack of understanding, broken by the love.

They lacked the sibling love but they had a bond through their experiences.

Through childhood, through adolescence, through adulthood, they kept strong. Hiding the desperation.

Until it popped.