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Cosima is dying.
Sarah was used to having a steady mantra of three-word nerves rolling around in her mind—Vic hit me, I’m a clone, Kira is gone. That was her life, but it was what kept her going.
Cosima is dying.
It was no secret who Sarah favored out of her sisters, but it was a harmless favoring—the sort of love that came natural and neat, like meeting your soul mate, but without the pressure. She had shattering, endless love for so many people, though she’d never voice it—Mrs. S, Felix, Kira. Alison and Helena and the sisters she never got to meet. Now she had Cal again, and Tony, and Charlotte, god, a little sister.
But Cosima is dying. It always came back to her.
Cosima rolled over in bed, spider-monkeying all in Sarah’s space. “Knock-knock. What’s going on up there?”
Sarah groaned, playfully shoving Cosima off and pulling a pillow over her head. “Ugh, you’re heavy, you geek. I’m thinking about you.”
Cosima laughed and pulled away the pillow, straddling Sarah. Sarah let her hands wander to Cosima’s hips and waist, her back, then up through her hair. She had muscle again, her softness had returned, her hair shiny. “Well, stop. No more worries, ‘kay?”
Sarah smiled and licked her lips, leaning up for a kiss. “I’ll try my best.”
Cosima is dying.
No, that’s not true, nix that. Push it past, let it go.
Cosima was dying.
Much better.