twinship

By Kimberly Liu

The most transcendental part of any relationship, for me, is self-recognition through the other. It establishes, in one irrefutable proof by example, the assertion that we are all one, intertwined in our struggles and pains as we are in our joys and exaltation. 

I met my ride-or-die-twin-flame while we were both coveting the role of lead singer in our 7th grade music class. The song was “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, and needless to say, we were mortal enemies. Since then, a decade down the line, our paths couldn’t be more different, but our essences, our freaky parallel lives, the way we choose to live out our femininity (edging insanity, no short of delusional), echo each other in an impenetrable equilibrium. 

It’s startling to think what my reality would be without her—she’s had my thoughts and voiced them before I even knew the words. She hears me as me; she’s more me than me. We are each other’s proof of existence, a justification of sorts that says, “you are valid as am I.” 

Not to be melodramatic, but, as Lana says, we did it for fun, we did it for free, I showed up for you, you showed up for me.

Dance Party for 2

By Kathy Gonzalez 

When we were six years-old, Emely and I would host the most extravagant dance parties. Anyone who was anyone was there—her worn-down teddy bear, the lopsided Little Mermaid pillow, and the two of us. We pushed her leather sofa back against the wall to broaden the dance floor, revealing leftover Lindt chocolate wrappers we'd snuck out of her pantry the night before. As I browsed through dozens of cable radio channels on the TV, she would fill up our water bottles and stretch.

Would we be dancing pseudo-bachata to some Prince Royce? Perhaps we’d choreograph a heartfelt interpretive dance to Katy Perry’s “Firework,” or a hip-hop routine to the latest Black Eyed Peas hit. 

Then, the real party began. For hours on end, we danced like no one was watching, because no one was. Our dance routines perfectly fused the agility of an acrobatic routine with the tender storytelling of a lyrical piece. In our minds, we were no different from the cool girls in our favorite Disney Channel shows. 

Between fits of laughter, we would lie on the carpet in comfortable silence, relishing in the fact that we would do it all over again the next day—if our moms said yes, of course.

You know?

by Joe Maffa

In the post- office, my most supportive, nurturing, and healing friends Aditi, Alice, Kathy, Kimberly, and Tabitha know something that I don’t. 

Maybe it’s how to use an em dash.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying—despite being ratioed by their endless grammatical wisdom. 

Maybe it’s why the ethmoid looks vaguely labial. 

Command+T, “ethmoid,” Command+T, “ethmoid, pussy bone?” Command+W .

Maybe it’s about Aditi and Alice’s first editorial board—a group of witty, wonderful women who made this magazine the bubbly and beautiful publication that it is. They observed this group as quiet copy-editors, glancing above their computer from time-to-time, wondering how they got to be in a room with people that cool.

Yeah, I know that feeling.

Admittedly, I’m an outsider—loud with my voice in a room of thinkers, clumsy with my words in a room full of writers—oh, and the obvious I guess. An outsider, but a guest, and I know it. So there I sit, and sometimes I interject, and sometimes I break into my head-voice for HAIM’s “3 AM” (which I added, don’t get it twisted). But mostly I listen, and I laugh; in fact, I laugh a lot, especially when there’s nothing I really can nor should do but laugh. And I listen some more as we agree: “Men, you know?” I roll my eyes. In fact, I do.

Not really strangers

By Alice Bai

My summer in Memphis was thick with sweat and hazy Mississippi air. I didn’t know anyone there, not really, and I had braced myself to spend my free time romanticizing solitude and practicing (or just playing at) adulthood.

What I found instead were friendships with women who were willing to share. We shared car rides, and cheesecake, and lunch swipes, and stories about what we cared about and how we thought the world might perceive us. For a summer and by happenstance, we shared the same space, and what it left me with was a feeling that persists, even now that the time and place are gone.

When I write about female friendships, this is what I mean. They bind you together. They leave you with a sense of proximity that you do not forget.

girlish charm

By Tabitha Lynn

Middle school sleepovers were the pinnacle of my existence. Planned weeks in advance, they were my first real taste of independence. 

My mom can drop me off if your mom picks you up.

We can stay in the basement and order pizza.

I have to leave at 9am for my soccer game.

We would squeeze into the beds we were just beginning to outgrow, and under the cover of darkness, we let our secrets flow freely. We would intertwine our pinkies and our futures, making unbreakable pacts to be best friends forever. 

Our voices flitted in and out, discussing rumors and failed tests and going to high school and who to invite to our birthdays—every new topic so all-consuming that nothing else could possibly matter.

And just maybe if we whispered quietly enough, morning would never come, and we could remain weightless and frozen in time, surrounded by friendship as pure as it would ever be.

Looking back, those sleepovers were only a sneak peak into my future here: too many bodies snuggled in one twin XL, whispered conversations deep into the night, and promises of friendship, forever.