Elara sank onto the cold bathroom floor, the chill seeping through the thin fabric of her borrowed pajamas. The porcelain tiles were unyielding beneath her, pressing into her skin until the cold seemed to creep into her bones. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, curling in as if she could make herself small enough to disappear.
The light above flickered, a harsh white glare that made everything look too sharp, too sterile. Shadows trembled along the walls in uneven stripes. The air smelled faintly of soap and lavender, but beneath it lingered the faintest trace of something chemical—cleaner or disinfectant—reminding her how foreign this house was.
Silence pressed close, thick and unkind. Outside the locked door came the muffled sounds of life continuing without her: a soft creak of wood, the sigh of air through vents, the distant tick of a clock. Every sound underscored the truth—she was here, alive, in a place that wasn't hers.
This body.
This face.
This life.
It felt like being trapped in someone else's dream, forced to wear a skin that didn't fit.
Her thoughts spiraled without mercy, spinning between disbelief and the dull ache of loss. Every time she tried to steady herself, another memory of her old life surfaced—her real life—then slipped away again. Her small apartment, cluttered but hers. The hum of the subway, the rhythm of footsteps on concrete, the weary comfort of a lukewarm cup of tea beside her glowing laptop. The exhaustion had been crushing, but at least it had been familiar. Hers.
Now, even her exhaustion felt stolen.
She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to fragments that were already fading.
Her mother's voice drifted up from the depths of memory: "Find something that matters to you."
Her father's quiet agreement, the gentle patience in his eyes: "Find your passion. Your purpose."
She had tried. God, she had tried.
She had picked up hobbies—sketching, baking, even guitar—each one abandoned when the spark fizzled out. She had chased friendships that ended quietly, like songs fading mid-melody. On rare free mornings, she had sat in the park with her coffee and watched strangers hurry past, wondering if they had found the meaning that always eluded her.
And now there would be no second chance to find it.
Her life had ended before she ever figured out what it was for. In its place was this—someone else's existence, complete with its own history, its own pain, its own unfinished story.
A sob clawed up from her chest before she could stop it. She pressed her forehead against her knees, and the tears came—hot, messy, relentless. They struck the tile in small, uneven drops that darkened the white surface.
For a long time, she let herself break.
Her shoulders shook with each breath. Her fingers dug into her arms hard enough to leave marks. Every exhale came out as a quiet, shaking sound she barely recognized as her own.
When the tears finally slowed, her mind returned to the question she didn't want to ask.
Celine Arden.
The name echoed in her head like a whisper through a tunnel. Who was she really? What kind of life had she lived? What pain had been strong enough to make her give up on it completely?
And—most of all—why had it mattered that someone take her place?
The thought gnawed at her. If Celine had truly wanted to vanish, why make sure her body lived on? Why reach out to pull another soul into her despair?
Elara pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, as if she could push away the thoughts. The room felt smaller with every breath. The mirror loomed above her like an accusation.
She didn't belong here. She wasn't supposed to breathe this air, feel this heartbeat, wear this face.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, uneven and loud. She tried to focus on the rhythm, to anchor herself. One breath in. One out. Again.
Maybe—just maybe—if she took things one breath at a time, she could survive this.
But even as she thought it, doubt pressed in.
How long could she live pretending to be someone she wasn't?
How long before the cracks started to show?
Her eyes wandered to the faint reflection of the ceiling light on the tiles. The glow shimmered in tiny puddles of her own tears. She stared at them until her breathing steadied, until the world stopped spinning quite so fast.
Her mind circled back to her parents. To her coworkers. To the small life she had built piece by piece. She pictured her mother crying quietly over the phone that would never ring again. Her father sitting at the table, pretending to read the newspaper while his coffee went cold.
They thought she was gone. To them, Elara Vaughn was already buried.
The realization tore another sound from her throat, half sob, half laugh. She covered her mouth quickly, the noise echoing too loudly in the narrow room.
Her heart hurt in a way she didn't know how to describe.
Slowly, she lifted her head, her gaze snagging on the mirror.
Celine's face stared back—pale, streaked with tears, eyes wide and too bright.
For a second, Elara imagined that somewhere deep inside those eyes, the real Celine might still be there, watching her.
Why did you do this? she wanted to ask. Why me?
The mirror, of course, gave no answer.
Only her own ragged reflection looked back—part Elara, part Celine, and something uncertain in between.
Her breathing steadied. The tears on her cheeks cooled.
Maybe, she thought, she could take this one step at a time. Learn who Celine had been. Understand what this world expected from her. Maybe then she could figure out why fate had decided she belonged here.
The thought was fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a table, but it was enough to make her uncurl her body and sit up straighter.
Her palms flattened against the tiles, and she pushed herself to her feet. Her knees trembled from sitting too long, and the motion made her dizzy.
She caught her reflection again as she rose.
Celine's face stared back—paler now, streaks of mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Her lips trembled once, then pressed together in determination.
She didn't look like Elara anymore. But she didn't look entirely like Celine either.
She looked like something caught between—someone in the making.
The thought both terrified and steadied her.
She exhaled and turned toward the door, her hand resting on the knob.
Just as she drew in a breath to open it—
a sharp, insistent knocking broke the silence.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing in there?"