Note: Achi – Hokkien honorific term for ‘elder sister’ Shobe – Hokkien term for ‘younger sister’ At 6:30 sharp, my phone rings like a wake-up alarm that I’d rather put a snooze to. Not because of the early grumbling to sleep in longer, but rather the foreboding call of plea that always hangs uneasily beneath the joyful shrill ringtone of Messenger. I inhale deeply, suffocating the aching pain in my heart before I answer the call. And there it was again, the same scene unfolding through the phone speaker like a script being acted out every day. My sister’s distressed cries echo into the night. She sobs out incoherent words. “Take a deep breath. What’s wrong?” I ask, but merely out of courtesy. I already know what’s wrong. What’s been wrong every single day for the past months. She doesn’t take a deep breath. “Achi, I’m a failure,” she chokes out in hurried gasps. “Everything’s going wrong.” My heart clenches, but I say nothing. Instead, she continues. “I can’t sleep. I haven’t been eating for the past weeks. I-” She gags. A quick shuffling. Then a loud hurl, vomiting out everything. A short silence follows before she breaks down into a wail again. “Everything’s a mess. Achi, I can’t do it anymore. I can see it.” She gasps, her voice quivering in fear. “They all look so disappointed in me. I’m a failure for everyone.” Her voice muffles, probably from burying her face into her knees. “Please, I don’t want to see it anymore. Please remove it.” I open my mouth, then close it. It has been months, and I don’t know what else to say anymore. So, I tell her. “To be honest, Shobe, I don’t know what to say other than what I’ve been telling you. You’re not a failure. Everyone is working toward the same goal. Everyone is rooting for the success of this event.” I pause. “You’re not alone.” “It’s okay, you don’t need to say anything.” She sniffs, her nose full of snot. “I just need you to listen. I just need someone to listen. Even if everyone else sees the happy and bubbly me, I just need one person to know I’m not okay.” I sigh. Every fiber of me just wants to hug my little sister right there. My baby sister. But instead, all I can do is offer my voice and words of comfort 7,000 miles away. “You’ll be okay. You can do this. I believe in you. Everyone believes in you.” “Thank you, Achi.” I could hear a small smile through her soft voice. “I really wish you were here.” I smile too. “I wish I was too. Get some sleep, Shobe.” Then, like a timer, the call coldly comes to an end by 7:00 sharp. I leave for school, plastering a smile of okay.