I wake up in the same hospital bed, my head throbbing and my body aching. The room is buzzing with noise as the same people surround me again, but this time, they aren't worried—they're furious.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you run away like that?" one woman shouts, her face flushed with frustration. "I know you've lost some of your memory, but you need to be careful!"
I don't respond. I barely have the energy to lift my head, let alone deal with their anger.
"The doctors said they're going to examine you again, just to make sure you didn't hit your head when you ran off," the woman continues, her voice tinged with exasperation.
I don't argue. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling hopeless. What's the point? My mind races with questions I can't answer. Why is this happening to me? I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to wake up in someone else's body, surrounded by strangers. All I wanted was peace—a release from the pain. Instead, all I feel now is despair.
Then they tell me something unexpected. "The young man who saved you is here," the woman says softly. "He's been waiting outside, hoping to see if you're alright."
I glance toward the door, and sure enough, there he is—a figure standing just outside, his back turned toward the room. But instead of gratitude, an overwhelming sense of anger and frustration wells up inside me.
"I don't want to see him!" I shout, my voice trembling with raw emotion. "He should have just let me—or whoever I am now—die!"
My words hang in the air like a slap. The man flinches but doesn't turn around. I watch as he slowly walks away, his shoulders slumped. I don't know who he is, and frankly, I don't care. Nothing in me wants to see him, let alone thank him.
A doctor comes in shortly after, checking my vitals and examining my head. He seems satisfied with the results and finally clears me for discharge.
As I'm wheeled out of the hospital and into a waiting car with the people who claim to be my family, I feel a deep, gnawing fear. My mind keeps replaying everything that's happened. So… I killed myself, but somehow I ended up in the body of a girl who also tried to end her life? Why? How? None of it makes sense.
The car pulls up to a sprawling driveway, and I catch my breath. The house in front of me is massive—modern, luxurious, the kind of place you see in movies. Whoever this girl was, she had everything. The contrast between this life and the cramped apartment I shared with my mom is overwhelming.
As we step inside, they guide me to my bedroom. If I wasn't already numb, the sheer opulence of the room would've left me speechless. A king-sized bed dominates the space, flanked by a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. A large vanity sits by the window, its surface sparkling with neatly arranged beauty products.
But none of it feels right. It's not my room. It's not my life.
What made this girl do it? I wonder, my eyes scanning the room. She had everything—wealth, a family, a life most people would envy. So why did she want to end it?
As the day drags on, I start piecing together their names from the way they address one another. The man is Dylan, my—or rather, her—dad. The woman is Maria, her mom. The young girl, Ella, is her sister. The older couple I've seen lingering around must be her grandparents.
They treat me like I belong here, but every second feels like a lie. I feel like an imposter, someone who's stolen this girl's life. And the worst part? I can't tell anyone the truth. If I did, they'd probably think I'd gone insane after the accident.
Later that evening, Ella knocks on my door and pokes her head in. "How are you feeling?" she asks, her voice tentative. "Mom said if you're up for it, you could go back to school tomorrow."
I force a small smile. "I'm fine," I reply, though the words feel heavy on my tongue. "I'll be ready."
"Alright," she says, stepping inside. "I'll grab your uniform for you."
When she returns, she places the neatly pressed uniform on my bed and leaves with a quiet, "Goodnight."
I glance at it and freeze. The uniform is almost identical to the one I wore in high school—the same colors, the same crest. My fingers brush against the fabric as memories flood my mind.
This girl and I had more in common than I thought. We lived near the same neighborhood. We attended the same school. We shared the same pain. But why? Why me?