Page 4 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Once I’ve finished bandaging myself, I move into the closet and pull on the first outfit within reach, black leggings, an oversized hoodie, and Dior sneakers. I sit to lace them slowly, telling myself I’ll grab something to eat before I collapse from running on empty.

The wound on my forehead needs stitches. There is simply no version of reality in which I wander the academy with blood running down my face.

As for food, there might be something in the kitchen I could prepare, but I’m far too unsteady to attempt it properly.

So, the first order of business, the academy doctor. Then the dining hall.

Once the bleeding has been dealt with and the dizziness is no longer threatening to knock me unconscious, then, and only then, can I begin to question whether I’ve truly lost my mind.

Because, by all appearances, it seems I have.

I leave the bedroom and step into the main room of my dorm. It’s a refined space, elegant and spacious, with dark wood floors, pristine white walls, and a grand arched window that frames the distant woods of Elaris Isle.

A large tufted sofa is paired with a matching lounge chair, both arranged atop a soft, pale carpet. A low table sits between them, and a sleek television is mounted across from the seating area.

The kitchen stretches along the far wall, separated by a marble island and a small dining table.

Everything looks perfectly arranged, curated with care and taste, a reflection of me, altered by a hint of foreignness.

The room is recognisable in shape and structure, but there’s a distortion I can’t quite place, as if the familiarity has been tampered with.

Nothing is obviously wrong, but the unease clings. Certain details draw my eye, things I’m almost certain weren’t here before. This space is mine, and at the same time, it isn’t.

I walk towards the door and reach for my coat, hung neatly on the standing wardrobe near the entrance.

An unexpected knock comes just before my hand touches the sleeve. I blink, my brows pulling together, still caught in the fog of confusion. Without thinking, without even checking, I open the door.

Octavia, my sister, stands on the threshold. Or at least, I think it’s her.

A memory of last night surges back so sharply that I gasp.

Her features are familiar, yet changed, older, her expression harder, her posture unnervingly rigid. And then there’s her hair.

Pink.

Her mid length waves catch the light, a soft rose shade that seems almost unreal. But yesterday she was blonde. Of that I am certain. I saw her with my own eyes.

Last night, my sister was blonde.

Chapter 2

Ophelia

My sister’s gaze moves over my face. For the briefest moment I see a flicker of surprise, but it disappears almost at once, replaced by concern. She says nothing at first. Only when her eyes fix on the blood at my forehead does she speak.

“You’re bleeding,” she remarks. Stepping inside as the door clicks shut behind her, one hand half raised as though to reach out.

I step back before she can touch me and shake my head. “It’s nothing. Only a small cut,” I dismiss her worry.

Her brows draw together. “That needs to be seen by the doctor. It’s worse than you realise.”

“That’s precisely where I was headed,” I reply.

I barely get the words out before she turns without comment and walks back toward the door. “Okay, let’s have you looked at first. Then we’ll talk.”

“No.” I stop her, my words sharper than I intend. “It’s fine. I’m fine. What I need is an explanation. Someone has to tell me what’s happening, because I’m beginning to think I’ve gone mad.”

She pauses, though she doesn’t turn to face me. There’s a stiffness to her stance I struggle to describe, as though she’s restraining herself. Even in this small exchange I sense her holding back, retreating, creating a distance between us. She seems… detached.