Duplicate

March 29, 2025

Before I was Ashley, I was Amanda’s twin. Technically I still am. But that phrasing—Amanda’s twin—suggests something passive. A sidecar. A mirror image. A copy. It leaves little room for asymmetry, for the fact that I preferred books to banter, grades to game days though I played basketball too. I had to. We both did. That’s what happens when you’re born next to someone who does something well. You do it too. You compete or you don’t exist.

Amanda was better, naturally. She was louder, taller (by half an inch), more comfortable in her own skin. I shot free throws like my GPA depended on it, and in my mind, it kind of did. There’s a quiet desperation to being almost as good as someone who looks just like you.

We’ve always been different. Amanda charmed bouncers, guys at the gas station. I explained things. She had no patience for the questions. I had entire scripts prepared. People stared like we were a puzzle to solve. “Who’s the outgoing one?” “Who’s smarter?” “Who’s prettier?” Pick your fighter.

No one asks that about regular sisters.

At some point, we stopped dressing the same. Not that we ever really meant to. I lean into what people might call hipster-minimalist—neutrals, clean lines, an outfit that could mean effort or indifference. Amanda wears furry bear boots and ripped denim like it’s nothing. She always pulls it off. I wouldn’t last five minutes in her clothes; I’d look like I was playing dress-up.

Her apartment looks like it was lifted from a streetwear catalog: Bearbricks lined up on shelves, a Supreme blanket folded over a velvet couch, LED lights turned up too bright. Mine is the opposite. A bed, a lamp, a plant, a stack of books. Minimal to the point of stubbornness.

She listened to music that gave me headaches. I played stuff she said sounded like a dentist’s office on repeat. We started orbiting different planets. Thank God we never liked the same men.

When I left for college, Amanda didn’t plan to follow. Then she did, a few months later. She says it wasn’t about me, but I know better. It was always easier to be near each other, even when we were pretending it didn’t matter. The only time we were apart—truly apart—was when I took an internship in Santa Monica. Eight months. Not long in theory. But it felt like a shift in climate. Like my bones noticed before I did.

I learned how to do things without her: show up to things alone, be just Ashley. People didn’t introduce me as a twin. They didn’t know there was another version of me somewhere out there, sharing my face but not my taste in... anything.

Amanda visited a few times. We fought once, about something dumb—probably a pair of shoes, or the way she loaded the dishwasher. I think we missed each other in the same way you miss a limb you thought you didn’t need. She’s back now. We're adults. Which means we get to choose the closeness. It’s no longer about proximity. It’s about alignment.

Here’s what I know now: being a twin is not like being born with a built-in best friend. It’s like being born with a witness. Someone who remembers everything you remember—except the parts you forgot. Someone who knows how your childhood actually happened. Who saw you at your most boring, and your most raw. There’s no myth-making with a twin. They keep you honest.

Amanda and I don’t finish each other’s sentences. We don’t text in code, don’t share dreams, don’t speak with just our eyes. But sometimes—before I realize it’s her—I catch her reflection. And something deep inside me stills, like a memory settling into place, a quiet recognition that never quite leaves.