Chapter 3: Losing Days, Losing Myself

Then, when I was sixteen, I suddenly couldn’t see her anymore—and I lost two days of my life.

I woke up in my own bed, confused and disoriented. The calendar on my phone showed two days gone, and my parents hovered at my door, their faces anxious and hopeful.

Mom and Dad said Lila had woken up inside me. The days I lost were when she was living my life in my body.

They explained it gently, as if I was made of glass. Mom stroked my hair, telling me Lila had been here, that she’d laughed and cried and lived, if only for a little while. Dad just nodded, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

After that, I’d wake up to find days had passed.

It became a cycle—blackouts. Missing time that made my stomach drop. Scribbled notes left on my nightstand. I’d come back to find my clothes rearranged, my phone full of messages I didn’t remember sending.

Lila and I just kept sharing this body, leaving notes to fill each other in on what we’d missed.

Our notebooks filled up with back-and-forth messages—inside jokes, reminders, apologies. Sometimes, I’d find a drawing or a song lyric, a little piece of her left behind for me.

Three years went by in a blur—like watching someone else’s life on fast-forward.

High school graduation, first heartbreak, college acceptance letters—all of it happened in flashes, some mine, some hers. The years melted together, one memory bleeding into the next.

But I never expected that in just three years, my parents would choose her over me.

I always thought they’d fight for both of us. I never imagined they’d ask me to step aside, to disappear for her sake. The betrayal felt sharp, like a knife twisting in my gut.

Maybe I was starting to resent Lila deep down.

I hated feeling that way. She was my sister, my best friend, but I couldn’t help it. The more I lost, the more I blamed her, even though I knew it wasn’t fair.

Sometimes, I could feel her, deep inside, sleeping.

Sometimes, I’d sense her presence—a gentle warmth, a whisper at the edge of my thoughts. Other times, she was silent, buried so deep I wondered if she’d ever come back.

I let out a breath of relief. But then I remembered what my parents said yesterday, and the relief caught in my throat.

The memory of their words hung over me like a storm cloud, threatening to break at any moment. I tried to shake it off, but it lingered, heavy and oppressive.

After yesterday’s outburst, my mind was clearer than ever. I was never as outspoken as Lila. What I did yesterday was my limit—if I hadn’t been so scared, I never would’ve smashed anything.

I replayed the scene in my head, wincing at my own anger. I wasn’t the type to yell or break things. I wondered if Lila would have done more, or if she’d have just laughed it off.

After washing up, I figured they’d be disappointed to see me awake this morning.

I stared at my reflection, trying to find traces of her in my eyes. I wondered if they’d be happier if she was the one standing here, brushing her teeth and tying her hair back.

I forced myself to open the door. Sure enough, the moment my parents saw me, their eyes went from hopeful to disappointed.

Their faces fell. All that hope just vanished, like water down the drain. Mom tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Dad just looked away, his mouth a hard line.

I’d braced myself, but that feeling of being abandoned by my own parents still tore at my heart.

It was a hurt that settled deep, a kind of loneliness that no amount of logic could erase. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep moving.

At some point, the mess in the house had been cleaned up. Everything I’d broken was replaced.

The living room was spotless, like nothing had ever happened. Like I’d never even existed.

I forced myself to stay calm and went downstairs. Dad snorted, refusing to look at me.

His newspaper rustled loudly as he flipped the page, a not-so-subtle sign that he wanted nothing to do with me. The silence between us was deafening.

Mom kept wanting to say something but just sighed.

She hovered near the kitchen, wringing her hands, her mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right words. In the end, she just let out a long, shaky sigh.

My nose stung. The air was heavy with hurt, and the scent of flowers.

Every breath felt heavy—full of grief and disappointment. The floral perfume clung to everything, sweet and suffocating.

Lilies sat in the center of the dining table, on the coffee table, in the bathroom, even on the kitchen counter.

Their white petals glowed in the morning light, filling every room with their scent. It was overwhelming, inescapable—a constant reminder of Lila.

Everywhere I looked, there were lilies—Lila’s favorite. My parents were making a statement, showing me they were waiting for Lila to wake up.

It was like living in a shrine. A shrine to the wrong daughter.

I could almost hear my love for them crack—and feel myself about to shatter.

It was almost physical—a crack running through my chest, threatening to split me in two. I clenched my fists, desperate to hold myself together.