I looked at my sister’s face, which was almost identical to my own. We shared the same eyes, the same dark hair, and the same features, yet everything beneath my collarbone told a completely different story. Hidden under my clothes were scars so severe that I hadn’t worn short sleeves in twelve years.
The hardest part wasn’t hiding them.
It was hiding the reason they existed.
Doctors had warned my parents that forcing Chloe to remember the house fire could destroy the fragile psychological barrier protecting her from those memories. So I stayed silent, allowing her to resent me because her anger seemed like a small price to pay if it
meant she could live without reliving that nightmare every day.
I tightened my grip on the bikini before quietly answering, “Okay, Chloe. I’ll think about it.”
She rolled her eyes without even looking away from her reflection.
