Alex had just turned 15. This is the day we never spoke about.

We were born one year and three months apart but looked like twins with our rosebud lips and Irish blue eyes.

Before the accident, we were inseparable. We had our own rooms but often shared my bed when we were little. When we got too big for that, Alex started sleeping on my bedroom floor. In the dark, we’d joke about all of the things we could buy if someday we won the lottery (a house made of pizza for him and an island full of monkeys for me).

Alex told me ghost stories until I was too scared to fall asleep. He would reach up from the floor to hold my hand, letting go somewhere between midnight and morning.

After the accident, Alex never slept in my room again.

On the way to the funeral, our parents told him that what had happened was God’s will, that this was part of a much bigger plan. On the way home, as Alex slept, they told me that maybe it was better if we didn’t bring it up again.

So when I heard Alex crying in his room at night, I stayed where I was, wrapped in my comforter, and I didn’t bring it up.