I grew up wearing my sister’s name like a borrowed skin. At school, at home, even in the yearbook—no one corrected it, and neither did I. “Stop copying her,” Mom hissed. I wanted to scream, I’m not copying—I’m surviving. The night she vanished, the cops stared at me like a defective duplicate. Then they found a body… and a ring engraved with my name. In the mirror, she smiled behind me: “It was always you.” So tell me—when did I die?
I grew up wearing my sister’s name like a borrowed skin. Her name was Brianna Carter—cheer captain, honor roll, the kind of girl teachers smiled at before she even answered. My name was Megan Carter, but it rarely mattered. At school, at home, even in the yearbook, people called me Brianna, and I didn’t correct…
