Si Rose At Si Alma «TRUSTED»
But one summer, the balance broke.
Alma came home at midnight, her knuckles bruised, her smile too wide. She had punched a landlord who evicted a single mother from her class. “He deserved it,” she said, pressing ice to her hand.
Then Alma did something she never did. She stopped talking. She fetched a comb, a towel, and a pair of proper shears. She sat behind Rose and began to cut. Not fast. Not fiery. Slowly. Gently.
It was the first crack. Not loud. Just a hairline fracture in the quiet. SI ROSE AT SI ALMA
For years, that was enough. Rose rooted Alma when she burned too bright. Alma set fire to Rose when she grew too still.
Over the next weeks, Alma grew wilder—late nights, louder music, a new tattoo of a phoenix on her forearm. Rose grew quieter—canceled dinner plans, stopped watering the jasmine by the door, let the shop’s shutters stay half-closed.
Alma was the youngest. She was a cracked bell on a Sunday morning—loud, beautiful, and impossible to ignore. She danced in a cramped studio above a bakery, teaching kids who couldn’t afford lessons. Her laugh was a thunderclap. Her hair was always dyed a different shade of red. She collected people like stray cats, and they followed her into trouble without question. But one summer, the balance broke
When Alma finished, Rose’s hair was short and light—like a burden lifted. Rose looked in the mirror. For the first time in years, she didn’t see a pond. She saw a river.
Rose was no longer just a root. Alma was no longer just a fire.
They sat on the cold tiles until the light shifted from afternoon to dusk. “He deserved it,” she said, pressing ice to her hand
“You’re burning,” Rose replied. “And I’m tired of being the water.”
“You’re drowning,” Alma said. Not a question.
