I think people assume that when things fall apart, it happens all at once.
Like glass shattering.
But for me, it didn't.
It was happening slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece.
Before everything… my world was small. It was me, Barry, and a few other kids who didn't look at us like we were strange. Two of them mattered the most. Sam disappeared first — taken away to a place adults called a facility, because apparently he needed "treatment" before he could be around people again. They said it like it was a good thing.
Then Luke left too.
Because he had powers.
I remember pretending it didn't bother me, because I still had Barry.
I always had Barry.
We were twins. That meant something. It meant when the world tilted, I didn't fall alone.
And then, on our ninth birthday, lightning came down from the sky and took him from me anyway.
I remember the sound.
Not just the thunder — but the silence right after.
Hospitals smell like cold metal and disinfectant. I learned that fast. I learned how to hold someone's hand without knowing if they could feel it. I learned how to listen to machines breathe for someone else.
School was the worst part.
Everyone moved on like nothing had happened.
I didn't.
I walked through hallways alone. I ate lunch alone. Pretended not to notice when teachers avoided saying his name, like it might break something.
At home… It was quieter.
Too quiet.
Mom and Dad were there, but not really. They talked to each other like they were reading from a script. Like if they stayed calm enough, everything would fix itself.
Barry's room stayed exactly the same.
Sometimes I stood in the doorway and just stared at his empty bed. At the spot where he used to throw his backpack. At the mess he never cleaned up.
I missed him so much it hurt in places I didn't know could hurt.
Six months feels like forever when you're nine.
Every day I told myself:
' Just one more day. He'll wake up tomorrow. '
When he finally did, it felt like I could breathe again.
Like the world snapped back into color.
And then came the powers.
Super speed.
I loved it. I really did.
My brother was a superhero.
I watched him heal faster than anyone should. Move faster than my eyes could follow. Laugh again — really laugh.
And somewhere deep inside me, a tiny voice asked the question I didn't say out loud:
' What about me ? '
If Barry had powers… did that mean I might too ?
Then came the news.
They had made him an offer to attend a new school.
"Just schools," they said. "You'll still live together."
But they didn't understand.
We had always been together.
I held on before because I knew Barry would come back.
Now he was leaving again — and this time, I didn't know what I was supposed to hold on to.
The girls at my school weren't nice. They never really were. But Barry taught me how to answer them. How to say things calmly, confidently — in ways that made them stop, at least for a while.
He promised me things wouldn't change.
And he tried to prove it.
He spent more time with me after school. Took me places. Walked slower on purpose so I wouldn't feel left behind.
I appreciated it.
But there was something else that felt wrong.
Our Mom.
After Barry's powers appeared, everything about her shifted.
She got a job at a company called Vought. I didn't really know what they did only that they cared a lot about superheroes. And apparently, about my brother.
With the new job came a phone that was always in her hand.
She started taking pictures. Talking about lighting. About angles. About engagement. She made an account online — fitness, lifestyle, positivity. Everyone said she looked amazing.
It was 2013, but even then… people paid attention.
Too much attention.
At first, I thought it was harmless.
Then she started looking at me differently.
Measuring me.
Watching what I ate.
One day she said, very calmly, that I couldn't appear in her content "like that." That appearances mattered. That people judged mothers by their children.
So she put me on a diet.
A real one.
Not "eat more vegetables."
Not "be healthier."
Restricted. Counted. Controlled.
I was almost ten.
Dad didn't say anything.
I don't know if he didn't notice… or if he just didn't want to.
Barry noticed.
That's the part that mattered.
But some nights, when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I wondered if this was what growing up meant.
Watching people you love drift in different directions.
—-
I get home already exhausted.
Not the normal kind of tired — the kind that sits behind your eyes and makes every sound feel too loud. School was awful. Whispering, laughing, pretending not to stare while absolutely staring. I just want to go to my room and disappear for a bit.
I barely drop my backpack when Mom's voice cuts through the house.
"Emma," she says, too cheerful. "Come here for a second."
My stomach tightens.
She's standing in the kitchen, phone on the counter, a notebook open beside it. There are printed papers too — charts, columns, little boxes filled with numbers.
She smiles.
"I made a new meal plan for you."
Something in me snaps.
"I'm not doing it anymore."
The words come out before I can stop them. Quiet, but firm.
The room freezes.
My mom blinks, like she didn't hear me right. "What did you just say ?"
"I said I'm not doing any more diets," I repeat, louder now. My hands are shaking, but I don't care. "I'm done."
Her smile disappears.
"What do you mean, you're done ?" she asks, her voice sharpening. "You don't get to decide that."
I feel heat rise in my chest. Weeks of swallowing words finally claw their way out.
"These diets are stupid," I say. "I'm tired of being weighed every week so you can write numbers in a spreadsheet like I'm some kind of project."
Her face hardens.
"You are being dramatic," she snaps. "This is about discipline."
"No, it's about you," I fire back. "About your job. About your stupid account. You don't even look at me anymore unless it's to check what I ate."
She steps closer, pointing at me.
"You don't understand how this works. My image matters. What people see online matters. What they think of me at Vought matters."
"I'm your daughter," I say, my voice cracking.
She exhales sharply, rubbing her temples. "You're a child, Emma. You don't know what's good for you."
"I know I'm hungry," I shout. "All the time !"
The words hang in the air, heavy and ugly.
And then...
Whoosh.
A sudden rush of wind tears through the living room. Papers lift off the table, fluttering like startled birds. The curtains snap. The lights flicker for half a second.
Barry is suddenly there.
He didn't walk in. He just… appeared.
"What's going on ?" he asks, eyes darting between us, concern already written all over his face.
For a moment, my mom opens her mouth to explain. To justify.
I don't wait to hear it.
I turn and run down the hallway, my vision blurring. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me, the sound echoing through the house.
I slide down against the door, pulling my knees to my chest.
Outside, I can hear muffled voices. My mom talking fast. Barry interrupting her. His tone sharp, protective.
I press my forehead against my knees and squeeze my eyes shut.
I don't know when things got this bad.
—-
I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe.
My chest hurts. My throat burns. Everything feels too loud inside my own head.
And then… something feels wrong.
At first, I think it's just the shaking. My hands are trembling, fingers digging into my sleeves...but my sleeves slide past my wrists.
Too far.
I stare at my hands.
They're smaller.
That's not right.
My heart slams against my ribs as I push myself up from the floor. The carpet looks… farther away. My desk looms higher than it should. The bed frame feels like it's rising instead of me standing.
"My hands..." I whisper, my voice thin and shaky.
My clothes start slipping.
The sleeves swallow my arms. The hem of my shirt drags against the floor like a blanket. My jeans bunch around my ankles, then collapse completely, pooling around me.
"No, no, no, stop !!"
I grab at my arm, at my leg, trying to hold myself in place, like that could do anything. I press my back against the door, panic clawing up my throat.
Nothing stops it.
The room keeps growing.
My dresser becomes a wall. The bed turns into a cliff. My own clothes feel heavy, like fabric mountains sliding over me.
I'm shrinking.
The realization hits me so hard it knocks the air out of my lungs.
I stumble forward, tripping over the collar of my shirt, climbing instead of walking now. When I finally stop changing, I'm so small that the seams of my clothes are thick ropes. The cotton feels rough against my skin.
I sit there, shaking, surrounded by my own things turned alien and enormous.
I can't think.
And then...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Emma ?" Barry's voice, muffled through the door. "It's me."
My heart jumps into my throat.
"Don't—" I start to say, but my voice comes out tiny. Barely a sound at all.
The door opens anyway.
Light floods the room.
"Em ?" Barry steps inside, scanning the room, confusion flickering across his face. "Hey, I'm sorry about earlier, I just..."
He stops.
He looks around again. The empty floor. The bed. The desk.
His eyes drop.
To the pile of clothes near the bed.
For a second, he just stares.
Then… his gaze sharpens.
And he sees me.
Me standing there, no taller than one of his shoes, wrapped awkwardly in the folds of my own shirt, my heart pounding so hard I think it might shake me apart.
I lift one hand. It feels ridiculous. Tiny.
"H-hi," I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
Barry freezes.
His face drains of color. His mouth opens, then closes. His brain is clearly sprinting faster than the rest of him can keep up.
Finally, softly—almost reverently—he breathes:
"…Shit."