Chapter 1Born a Tree Not a Flower

I pulled three consecutive all-nighters to finish my research project early. I wanted to clear my schedule to celebrate Oliver’s birthday.

But instead of a text from him, my sister Zora’s Instagram DM popped up first: "Oh my god, Chicago is so much fun!"

The photo showed her and Oliver, heads tilted together, smiling.

My smile froze. "You're in Chicago?"

"Yeah! Got here three days ago. Wanted to surprise Oliver for his birthday!"

I stared at the screen, then calmly called Oliver.

"Isn't your defense in two days? I thought you said you were drowning in prep work and couldn't make time for anything?"

Oliver’s voice was perfectly level.

"It's not that hard for me, Lydia. But Zora rarely gets to travel. I knew you were buried in your lab work these past few days, so I figured I'd take care of her for you."

My eyes stung. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion finally crashed over me.

To keep up with Oliver, I had never allowed myself to stop.

What took him a day to master took me five.

I thought if I just kept my head down and ran fast enough, I would eventually catch up and find a place in his heart.

But the truth is, you don't have to run for someone who actually wants you.

I remembered the way he used to ruffle Zora's hair, calling her "silly but cute" with a gentle warmth in his eyes that he had never, not once, shown me.

I fell silent for a moment. Then, I opened my inbox and replied to the offer letter from Los Angeles that had been sitting there for three days.

* * *

I turned off my phone and crashed.

The research project had been brutal. Starting from scratch, I had poured my heart and soul into getting these results.

The deadline wasn't even until tomorrow, but my lab partners knew I had planned a birthday surprise for Oliver. They had pushed themselves to help me wrap up early.

When I finally woke up, my phone was blown up with over a dozen missed calls.

From Zora, from Oliver, and from my mother.

I only called my mother back.

"What is wrong with you?" her voice boomed through the receiver. "Your sister rarely visits Chicago, and you're throwing a tantrum? Call them back right now."

I blinked rapidly, trying to swallow down the sudden lump of hurt in my throat.

"Mom, I didn't even know Zora was coming. I just pulled three all-nighters. Am I really expected to drop everything and cater to her mood right now?"

"She didn't want to disturb you because she knew you were busy! She told Oliver, didn't she? Why are you being so difficult today, Lydia?"

"Difficult."

Growing up, "easy" and "mature" were the only words anyone used to describe me.

I studied hard—I was mature.

I got straight A's—I was mature.

I never fought for anything, never demanded attention—I was just so mature...

But no one ever stopped to ask me if I actually wanted to be.

My mother kept talking, but her words blurred into static. Except for the last sentence—the one I knew by heart.

"Zora’s health isn't great, you know that. Just look after her."

I calmly hung up. "I've looked after her enough."

My mom always said Zora was an unexpected miracle. She had been born sick, a constant visitor to hospitals. Naturally, my parents' entire world revolved around her.

And I, very early on, had learned to live in the quiet corners of their neglect.

I opened Instagram.

It was a photo dump. Nine photos, and Zora looked stunning in every single one.

Right in the middle of the grid was her and Oliver.

She was radiant, her smile splitting her face; his eyes were filled with soft, indulgent warmth.

Underneath, a neighbor had commented: "Zora, your boyfriend is so handsome!"

Zora had replied: "Oh stop, Mrs. Davis! That's my sister's boyfriend—my future brother-in-law!"

To which the neighbor replied: "Ah, my bad... my eyes must be failing me."

I let out a soft, humorless laugh.

Her eyes weren't failing her.

Mine were.