Sometimes, it’s not the loud rivalries that break us—but the quiet, subtle jabs passed off as love. Sisters Anaira and Alvira were never openly at war. But in their unspoken gestures, side-eyes, and passive digs, there was a tension so thick it could smother a room. And all it took was one guy with hazel eyes to bring it out in full force. Anaira’s POV Alvira always had this… pure desi girl image. Flowing kurtas, jhumkas, making chai with cardamom like it was a ritual. She knew every ghazal, read poetry like it was scripture. I, on the other hand, believed in cropped tops and the right amount of red…