The house felt colder than Amara remembered, even though the temperature hadn't changed. She stood in the center of the living room, dwarfed by the space that had always seemed imposing but now felt suffocating. Her parents, stationed in their usual positions—her mother pacing and her father standing rigid—watched her with unblinking eyes.
"Straighten your back," her mother snapped, her voice slicing through the silence.
Amara adjusted her posture, her shoulders pulling back and her chin lifting slightly. The movement felt unnatural, like bending a wire in the wrong direction.
"Better," her father murmured, nodding once in approval. "But you need to make it look effortless. Adelaide never moved like a soldier; she was fluid, natural. Try again."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead taking a deep breath and forcing her body to relax. She took a step forward, then another, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. The shoes—Adelaide's shoes—pinched her toes and made her stumble slightly.
"Stop," her mother barked. "You're overthinking it. Walk like Adelaide would. Shoulders back, but loose. Head high, but not stiff. Smile, but subtly. Graceful."
Graceful. That was the word they kept using. It was as if her parents believed grace could be conjured like magic, as if all the clumsiness and awkwardness that had defined Amara's existence could be erased by sheer willpower.
She obeyed, her body moving mechanically across the room. Her mother's sharp gaze followed her every step, and her father's stern expression offered no comfort.
"Good," her mother said after a long pause. "Not perfect, but good."
Amara bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping. "Good," she repeated, though the word felt like a lie. She couldn't help it. Adelaide had always been flawless, had always had an effortless grace that made everything about her shine. Amara wasn't sure if she would ever manage that.
Her father sighed heavily. "It's not just the walk, Amara. It's everything. Every gesture, every word, every glance. People will be watching you. You have to be her now. Don't forget that."
---
The days that followed blurred together into a monotonous routine of instruction and correction. Her parents spared no effort in transforming her into Adelaide, drilling her on every aspect of her sister's life.
In the mornings, she practiced walking, standing, and sitting with Adelaide's trademark poise. Her mother monitored her closely, correcting her posture and movements with the precision of a drill sergeant.
"You're still slouching," her mother said one morning as Amara sat at the dining table. "Adelaide never slouched."
"I'm not slouching," Amara muttered under her breath.
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Don't argue. Fix it."
Amara straightened her back, her shoulders aching from the constant tension. She tried not to wince as she continued to practice sitting with perfect posture, her bones feeling as if they were being pulled tight.
In the afternoons, her father took over, focusing on Adelaide's habits and routines. He quizzed her on Adelaide's favorite subjects, hobbies, and social circles, demanding flawless answers.
"What's Adelaide's favorite color?" he asked one day, his tone sharp.
"Blue," Amara replied automatically.
"Wrong."
She blinked, confused. "It's not blue?"
"It used to be blue," he said, his voice tinged with impatience. "But she changed it to green last year. You need to keep up."
Amara bit her lip, nodding silently. She should have known that. She should know everything about Adelaide.
In the evenings, they made her study Adelaide's interactions with others. Her parents pulled out photos, videos, and notes, dissecting every detail of Adelaide's behavior.
"Adelaide was warm but reserved," her mother explained, showing her a video of Adelaide at a school event. "She smiled often, but not too much. She was approachable but not overly familiar. You need to strike that balance."
Amara stared at the screen, watching her sister move and speak with an effortless charm that she couldn't hope to replicate.
"How am I supposed to do this?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Her mother's gaze softened slightly, but her words remained firm. "You don't have a choice, Amara. This is what needs to be done."
---
At night, when her parents finally left her alone, Amara retreated to Adelaide's room. It was the only place where she could breathe, though even that felt like a betrayal.
The room was immaculate, every detail meticulously arranged. The lavender walls, the neatly made bed, the organized shelves—all of it screamed Adelaide.
Amara sat at the desk, running her fingers over the smooth surface. She opened the drawers, sifting through the remnants of her sister's life. Notebooks, pens, photos—each item felt like a piece of a puzzle she didn't know how to solve.
One notebook caught her attention. Its leather cover was worn, the pages filled with Adelaide's neat handwriting. Amara flipped through it, her heart tightening with every word.
The entries were a mix of mundane observations and personal thoughts, but one phrase stood out:
Lucas is pushing too hard. I don't know what to do.
Amara's breath hitched. She read the sentence again, her mind racing.
Lucas. The name had come up before, scrawled in the margins of Adelaide's notes and scribbled on scraps of paper. Her parents had mentioned him briefly, but they hadn't elaborated.
Who was Lucas?
She flipped through the rest of the notebook, searching for more clues, but the entries were vague, cryptic. It was as if Adelaide had been trying to say something without saying it outright.
Amara closed the notebook, her hands trembling. She couldn't shake the feeling that whatever it was Adelaide had been dealing with, it was important—too important to be ignored.
---
The next morning, her father handed her a photo.
"You'll need to remember this," he said, his tone flat.
Amara studied the image. It showed Adelaide smiling, her arm wrapped around a boy with dark hair and a confident smirk.
"That's Lucas," her father said. "Adelaide's boyfriend."
Boyfriend. The word felt foreign, almost absurd.
"Why didn't you tell me about him before?" Amara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her father's expression darkened. "You'll meet him soon enough. For now, focus on getting everything else right."
Amara nodded reluctantly, her thoughts swirling. Who was this boy, and why had her parents kept him a secret from her?
The day passed in a blur. She couldn't get Lucas out of her head. It was as though the name haunted her, the idea of someone so close to Adelaide, someone who had been a part of her life. But there was something unsettling about it too—like a door that had been left closed, hiding something important behind it.
---
By the time her parents declared her ready to return to school, Amara felt like a hollow shell.
She had spent weeks learning to walk, talk, and act like Adelaide, but it wasn't enough. No matter how much she practiced, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was an imposter, a pale imitation of her sister.
Her parents, however, seemed satisfied.
"You've done well," her mother said one evening, her tone uncharacteristically soft. "You're almost there."
Almost.
The word echoed in Amara's mind as she sat in Adelaide's room, staring at the mirror. The reflection that stared back at her was perfect—Adelaide's honey-blonde waves, her flawless skin, her delicate features.
But it wasn't her.
It would never be her.
---
That night, she dreamed of the accident.
The memories were fragmented, disjointed. She remembered the screech of tires, the shattering of glass, the sensation of falling.
And she remembered Adelaide's voice, sharp and panicked.
"What are you doing? Stop!"
The words echoed in her mind, pulling her deeper into the dream. She saw flashes of a figure—tall, dark-haired, angry.
But the face was a blur, unfamiliar.
Amara woke with a start, her heart pounding.
The memory was hazy, but it felt significant. She couldn't shake the feeling that there had been something more to the argument. Had Adelaide been arguing with Lucas? Had they been fighting about something?
But why?
And what had they been arguing about?
---
The next morning, as she prepared for her first day back at school, her parents gave her one final lecture.
"Remember who you are," her father said, his voice firm. "You're Adelaide now. No one can know the truth."
Her mother nodded, her gaze piercing. "If anyone asks about the accident, keep your answers vague. Say you don't remember much. Focus on moving forward."
Amara nodded, her stomach twisting.
As she stepped outside, the sunlight felt harsh against her skin. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
This was it.
This was her new life.
As Adelaide.
And there was no turning back.
---