Page 14 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

It’s quiet, the hush of early morning pressing against the walls.

As I pull the door shut, I catch sight of Piper at the far end. She doesn’t glance back and I don’t call out.

Yesterday she made it plain enough she wanted no company. She’s always been guarded, yes, but never with us. Once, we’d managed to coax her into trust.

However now she feels entirely out of reach.

The hall is otherwise still, doors shut, silence pressing behind them, whether they’re still sleeping or already gone, I can’t tell.

All except Eleanor’s. I know that one is empty. My gaze lingers there, a knot tightening in my chest.

I knock softly at Octavia’s door. No answer. I try again, harder this time. There’s a muffled rustle, a heavy thud, and finally the door swings open.

She appears, her rosy hair tangled, drowning in a shirt that could only belong to a man, one shoulder bare where the fabric has slipped. Her green eyes are heavy with sleep, her scowl fierce with irritation. I’ve committed the cardinal sin, waking her.

I hadn’t seen her since the morning I collapsed in the dining hall.

Yesterday I hardly left my room, tea, whatever I could scavenge from the fridge and cupboards, far too many snacks, and The Vampire Diaries playing on a loop while rain battered the windows.

None of it unusual, except I did it alone.

Once, we would have drifted between each other’s rooms, evenings spent in easy company.

Now there’s a fracture I can’t explain. Whether it began that night or earlier, before my memory broke apart, I cannot say.

I only know that nothing feels the same, that I’ve woken in a world I half recognise but no longer belong to.

Lost in thought, I trail after my sister as she pads back toward her bedroom, nudging the door shut behind me with my leg.

Her dorm mirrors mine in layout, but inside it is entirely her own.

The cushions, the bedding, mismatched, careless, yet somehow cohesive.

What truly sets it apart is the living room, canvases propped against every wall, brushes strewn across the floor, jars of water muddied with colour.

Some works are complete, others abandoned mid stroke, but all of them breathtaking. Octavia is an artist, one of the finest I’ve ever seen, though she’d rather die than admit it.

I set the cups on the island and step into her room. She’s already sprawled across the bed on her stomach, hair a tangled halo, her breathing deep and even.

I’d almost swear she’s begun to snore.

“We’re going to be late.”

“I don’t have first period,” she mutters into the pillow.

I roll my eyes. It’s always her excuse. Whenever she can’t be bothered to get up, she claims she’s free.

“We all have first period. It’s the opening assembly.”

“Ugh. Five more minutes.”

I stride to the window and tug open the curtains. Sunlight floods the room, blinding, and she curses loudly before dragging herself upright and stumbling into the bathroom.

Left alone, I watch the woods beyond the glass, the leaves already beginning to turn, sunlight flickering through branches. I can almost feel the breeze.

It’s beautiful now, but this island shifts on a whim, in five minutes, it could be a downpour.

I retreat to the living area, and soon Octavia emerges, jeans fitted perfectly to her frame, a loose knitted jumper I’m quitesure is mine, trainers, her pink hair falling in waves. Just a swipe of makeup.