Chapter 2

The agonizing pain suddenly vanished.

When I opened my eyes again, the breathtaking, sacred snow-capped mountains of Aspen stretched out before me.

My parents were sitting in the first-class cabin of a plane. Premium meals were laid out on the trays in front of them, but every single plate was pushed toward Clara.

My mother coaxed her gently, her voice dripping with warmth. "Clara, sweetheart, which one do you want to try first?"

My father pushed a glass of fresh juice forward. "Here, Clara. Have a sip to wet your throat first."

Clara looked at the gourmet food and offered a weak, fragile smile. She whispered, "Mom... Dad... did we leave any food for Chloe before we left?"

The smiles on my parents' faces instantly froze.

Clara continued softly, "Chloe was so sick. I'm worried she won't be able to cook for herself. And... she said last week that she was tired of canned soup."

A pang of sadness hit my chest, but no tears fell.

"She'll eat when she gets hungry enough," my mother answered dismissively. She scooped up a spoonful of creamy pasta and brought it to Clara's lips. "Come on, Clara, just eat. It breaks my heart to see you starving yourself."

My father chimed in, "You are just too sweet, Clara. Even at a time like this, you're still worrying about her. But look at her—does she ever think about you? She knew we didn't have much money, yet she still threw a fit because she couldn't come with us."

"She didn't even stop to think about how much time you have left..." My father sighed, cutting himself off.

My mother started dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and Clara had no choice but to stay quiet.

But I noticed Clara's clenched fingers. They betrayed her anxiety.

Clara grew up surrounded by the family's ultimate devotion. Because of that, she was the only one who truly understood how deeply I was neglected.

When we were kids, a neighbor brought over two beautiful dresses, saying there was one for each twin. But my mother took both and gave them to Clara. "Our Clara has so little time left. If she doesn't experience these things now, she'll never get the chance."

That night, Clara asked me, "Chloe, do you want the dress?"

I nodded.

Without a word, Clara spilled permanent blue ink all over one of the dresses. With no other choice, my mother had to let me have the ruined one.

But when I looked into Clara's eyes, I knew. She had done it on purpose.

Even though I got the dress, Clara wasn't happy.

She kept apologizing to me. "I'm so sorry, Chloe. I could only give you the dirty one. I always make you suffer..."

We were so young, yet we both understood a cruel truth: only the broken, ruined things would ever be passed down to me.

The suppressed resentment kept building inside me until it finally exploded when we were ten.

On our tenth birthday, Clara and I went down to play in the backyard of our apartment complex.

After just a few minutes, Clara got tired and wanted to go back inside. But I hadn't had enough. I threw a tantrum, demanding to stay out longer.

My mother tried to reason with me, but I refused to listen. I couldn't understand why absolutely everything had to revolve around Clara.

In a fit of rage, I shoved Clara hard, sending her crashing to the ground. I screamed through my tears, "I don't want to go home! I want to play! If you want to go back, go by yourself! Why do I always have to listen to you? Why?!"

I can't remember what was going through my head back then. Maybe it was a sense of unfairness, or maybe it was just pure jealousy. I screamed and rolled on the grass, crying at the top of my lungs.

Like any obnoxious, desperate child, I thought throwing a massive tantrum would get me what I wanted.

But my mother didn't back down.

She stared at me, her eyes turning bloodshot. She raised her hand high and slapped me across the face.

"Chloe Miller! Do you have any idea that your sister only has eighteen years on this earth?! You have a whole lifetime to play! Why do you have to fight her for this single moment? How much time do you think she has left?!"

My father stood by, his eyes red and watery. He didn't stop her.

I wailed from the pain of the slap. Clara immediately threw herself over me, shielding me from my mother. She cried, "Mom! I want to play too! We don't have to go home. Please, don't hit Chloe!"

That night, after my mother applied ointment to my bruised cheek, Clara crept into my room.

I turned my head away, refusing to look at her. But then, a warm tear fell onto my shoulder. I turned back and saw her tear-filled eyes.

She handed me a fancy mechanical pencil—one I had wanted for months. She whispered, "Chloe... I'm so sorry..."

She didn't know what else to say, and I didn't know how to answer.

An apology like that shouldn't have come from her. It shouldn't have come from me, either. It should have come from our goddamn fate.

But fate was silent.

So Clara had to carry the guilt.

Back in the first-class cabin, my mother wiped her tears and put another piece of grilled chicken onto Clara's plate. "Clara, stop thinking about it. Here, eat."

"You're such a good girl. But Chloe... she's just too rebellious."

Rebellious?

Was I? I didn't know.

When I was little, I used to cry because of the favoritism. As I grew older, I learned to cry in secret.

I wanted to scream back, to tell them that I was good. That I could stay home alone, cook for myself, and comfort myself when I was scared.

But even though I spoke, no one heard me.

Then, my final memory flashed through my mind.

It was the copper taste of blood bubbling up from my lungs. Coughing it up onto the floor. And then, collapsing into complete darkness.

Oh. I see.

I was already dead.