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Make no mistake, Camilo loves all of their family equally, but Mirabel has and will always be their best friend. The two of them shared a room for the first five years of their lives, after all. So many nights of staying up past their bedtimes, whispering and giggling until Dolores marched in to tell them to be quiet so she could get some sleep. Running through Casita’s bright hallways, holding hands whenever they went into town, and most importantly, confiding in each other what they hoped their gifts would be.
Camilo had gone through their ceremony first, being two months older, and when they’d realized just what they had been blessed with, the very first person they’d shifted into was their favorite cousin. She’d laughed and clapped her hands in delight, and as much as Camilo loved to make everyone smile, from that moment forward, hers was their favorite.
They had eagerly awaited the moment Mirabel would receive her gift too. They just knew she would be given something as amazing as theirs, something to match how sweet and kind and funny she was. They couldn’t wait to see her room, to celebrate with the entire town as they all saw just how amazing she was. Barring Camilo’s own special day and when their parents told them that they were going to be a big brother, the most excited they’d ever been was in the weeks leading up to Mirabel’s ceremony.
And then.
Well.
They don’t like to think about that night too much.
Tomorrow is Antonio’s ceremony, and as thrilled as Camilo is for their baby brother, they can’t help but be the tiniest bit worried for Mirabel. Maybe more than a tiny bit. They’re quite a lot worried, actually. They’re not the only one—most of the family has been walking on eggshells around her lately. Conversations about the party planning stop when she walks in the room, and though Camilo’s parents are praying that everything will go off without a hitch, they do their best to keep it out of her earshot. But tomorrow it will be unavoidable, and Camilo can’t imagine how hard it will be for her.
So, after everyone else has gone to bed, Camilo slips out of their room and pads over to the nursery. Antonio is a deep sleeper, so they’re not too worried about waking their brother up while they check on Mirabel. Something in their gut is telling them that they just need to check on her, to make sure she’s alright like they always did when they were little.
Camilo cracks the door open and pokes their head inside the room, squinting to make out Mirabel’s bed in the darkness. She’s not there. Odd. And concerning. They open the door fully and step inside, having a suspicion of where she’s gone but wanting to confirm it.
“Casita, help me out,” they murmur, and soon enough the tiles of the floor are sliding them forward, all the way over to the nursery window. Casita nudges them, and they take the hint and clamber out through it, watching as the roof shifts to form stairs up to the very top of itself. They follow the path made for them, and sure enough they catch sight of Mirabel sitting by herself in her nightgown, face turned upward to the stars.
“There you are,” they say, sitting crosslegged beside her. “Can’t sleep?”
“Nope,” she says, sighing. “I know I need to. Big day tomorrow.” She gives Camilo a grin, but she has never been a good actor like them, and there’s no hiding the sadness in her eyes. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
They shrug. “No reason.”
“Liar.”
“Me?” They gasp, feigning offense. “How could you say that about your dear cousin?”
Mirabel snorts. “Okay, whatever.”
The two of them sit in comfortable silence for a bit before Camilo grows antsy. “So…”
“Mamá already talked to me about tomorrow,” she says, apparently already knowing what they were going to say. “How she knows it’ll be hard for me. But I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”
Not only is Mirabel a terrible actor, she’s also a terrible liar. Camilo chews at their lip before responding.
“You know,” they begin, trying to figure out how to say what they want to in a way that won’t make her feel worse, “it’s okay if you're a little upset.”
“I’m not upset,” she snaps, so sharply it catches them off guard. Her eyes widen, and she looks away quickly. “Sorry.”
“All good, Mira,” they say, poking her cheek, feeling pleased when they see her lips twitch upward. But it fades as quickly as it came, and her gaze goes distant. She sighs again, drawing her knees up to her chest.
“Antonio deserves an amazing gift,” she says after a moment. “And he’s going to get one. And it’s going to be wonderful and fun and the miracle will stay strong.” It doesn’t come out as confident as she probably meant it to.
“Yeah,” they agree, “but—”
“I’m happy for him,” she sniffs. “I am.”
“I know you are,” they reassure her. “No one thinks you’re not.” But she just keeps staring ahead, and when they see her lip wobble their heart drops to their stomach.
“I’m happy,” she says, and then the dam breaks. Mirabel buries her face in her hands, but not before they see the first tear slip down her cheek. Her shoulders shake as she curls into herself, and Camilo does not know what to do.
They want to make her smile, want to soothe the hurt, but they can tell that none of their usual tricks will do any good now—there is no face they can put on that will fix what was broken all those years ago. They can’t even begin to guess why Mirabel didn’t get her gift; all they know is that it is the most unfair thing imaginable. Camilo would never dare be ungrateful for the blessings the miracle has given their family, but they do feel a flash of anger run through their chest as they watch her helplessly. No one is allowed to make their cousin cry. No one.
“Hey,” they say quietly, reaching out to touch her shoulder tentatively. “Mira…”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles through her tears, finally looking up in order to wipe them off of her face. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“No you’re not,” they argue. “Anyone would be sad if they—” they stop themself again, but Mirabel catches onto what he meant anyway.
“It’s not supposed to be about me,” she says. “Casita didn’t need to give me a gift, and that’s just how it is. It’s Antonio’s time now.”
“Mirabel,” Camilo says, so forcefully that she looks at them out of pure surprise. “There is always time for you. I’m always gonna be here for you. And whatever happens tomorrow, you’ll still be just as special as any of us.”
Mirabel’s eyes go soft. “Thanks, Camilo.”
Camilo doesn’t say I wish you’d gotten a gift. They don’t say I wish you could see how loved you are. It all feels too vulnerable, too raw. So instead they wrap an arm around her, squeezing her tight in a one-armed hug. “Guess what,” they say.
Mirabel hums. “What?”
“You’re still my favorite cousin,” they say in an exaggerated whisper.
Mirabel laughs, leaning her head on their shoulder.
“You’re mine, too,” she says, and Camilo knows that the two of them will be okay.