Chapter 2: The Fall

The hospital room was thick with heavy silence. The vinyl chair squeaked as I shifted, my hospital bracelet digging into my wrist. It was the kind of hush you get when everyone’s terrified of saying the wrong thing—sterile walls, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and the sharp scent of disinfectant clinging to your clothes. My heartbeat thudded in my throat.

No one laughed off my words or rolled their eyes; they just sat there, stunned, glancing at each other like they’d practiced this moment in their heads a hundred times but never believed it would actually happen.

After a round of tense eye contact, they finally asked, “Have you really thought this through?”

Mom’s voice was too gentle, a little too careful, as if she was talking me off a ledge. Dad fiddled with his wedding ring, eyes fixed on the floor.

I scoffed. “Haven’t you always bent over backwards for her, but when it comes to me, you just look the other way?”

The words came out sharp as tacks, but I didn’t care. I wanted them to feel just a fraction of the sting I’d lived with for years.

“From the day Lily Harper came back, I was forced to give up my room, my clothes, my parents. I moved out of the old house, and now the only thing left she wants is Evan McAllister.”

Every loss felt like a tally mark on some invisible scoreboard. Even my favorite pink bike—gone, because Lily said she liked it better. Now, Evan was just the last thing on the list.

My dad frowned, trying to change the subject. “Yesterday was your fault, after all.”

He always deflected with blame—safer than dealing with feelings. Dad’s way was to sweep messes under the rug and hope nobody tripped.

“After Lily woke up, she said she fell by accident, that it had nothing to do with you.” Mom dabbed at her eyes, her mascara smudged. “Maya, go apologize to your sister, okay?”

Her voice trembled, her perfume sharp and floral, clashing with the hospital’s antiseptic air.

“No.” I snapped, “Every time she frames me, you make it up to her. Since I’ve already decided to give up Evan McAllister, then she should pay the price too.”

My voice echoed in the white room, brittle and cold. If they wanted to play favorites, fine—I was done being the backup plan.

At last night’s dinner party, Lily Harper gave me that smug, confident smile from the top of the stairs.

The kind of smile only someone who’s never really lost anything can pull off. Guests buzzed below, clueless to the storm brewing at the landing.

She didn’t say a word, because she knew I might be recording or filming her.

Lily always had a sixth sense for self-preservation—never leaving evidence, always looking innocent.

But I knew her tricks too well.

I’d spent years decoding her: the tilt of her head, the flutter of her lashes, the exact quiver in her voice that made adults melt.

Since she came back at sixteen, she’s perfected the art of playing the victim.

She could win an Oscar for those crocodile tears and trembling lower lip. And the family ate it up, every single time.

Looking at her well-rehearsed expression, I suddenly felt exhausted.

It was like running a race with a pulled muscle, always lagging behind, always blamed for losing.

“Actually, you don’t need to go to all that trouble.”

The words were sour in my mouth. I was tired of her performance, tired of my role as the villain.

After that, I lifted my foot and kicked her down the stairs.

Time slowed—her gasp, the shock in her eyes, the echoing thud. My heart pounded, adrenaline making my hands shake.

Anyway, it’s always my fault, so I might as well do it myself.

The absurdity of it all hit me—if you’re always the bad guy, what’s the point of pretending?

But I didn’t expect that before she fell, she grabbed my dress—and dragged me down with her.

The world spun, fabric tearing, banister burning my palm. We tumbled together, a mess of limbs and blame. My ankle twisted, and I tasted blood where I bit my tongue.

Before I blacked out, I thought: What a pity. Next time, I’ll make sure to kick harder.

That flicker of defiance was the last thing I felt—a small, bitter comfort as the world faded out.