"If you see us standing side-by-side, please don't mistake the silence for sisterly affection; we are simply calculating who has the better lighting."

I am Sabrina, the one with the gold-spun curls and a smile that looks sweet but is actually a tactical maneuver. I’ve got a willowy, reed-like frame that makes me look like a delicate porcelain doll, which is great because it lures people into a false sense of security before I out-sing them in a breathy, high-note showdown. My special talent? An ear for pitch so precise it’s practically a superpower, and a level of ambition that would make a corporate CEO sweat.

Then there is Tate, my genetically identical rival. She’s just as slender and lithe as I am, though she carries herself with a dancer’s predatory grace—probably because she spends half her life trying to out-stretch me. While I go for the polished pop-princess aesthetic, she’s the one with the edgy grit and a vocal range that hits the floorboards. Her primary skill is an annoying ability to memorize choreography in ten minutes, which she then uses to distract the judges from the fact that I’m the one actually carrying the melody.

We grew up in a household where "sharing" was a foreign concept and the living room was essentially a gladiatorial arena for aspiring divas. Our parents thought it was "cute" that we both wanted to be stars; in reality, we were just training for a lifelong war of attrition.

We are both eighteen, both still filling out into our adult figures, and both absolutely convinced that the other is the sidekick in this story. Tate thinks she’s the main character, and I’m here to politely, yet firmly, remind her that she’s the opening act.