CHAPTER ONE HER

What do you do when you can't remember?What do you do when everything you thought about yourself—everything you knew—turns out to be one big, fat lie?

That's me. My name is Crystal.

Or at least, that's what they told me.

I don't know who I am.The first time I woke up, they said I'd been in a coma.

That's what the doctors called it—a "miracle recovery." I don't know if I'd call it a miracle.When I first opened my eyes, the room was empty.

No nurses, no one—just silence.

My first instinct wasn't to scream or cry; it was to look at my face.

My body didn't rebel as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. No wobbly knees, no disorientation. I didn't feel like someone who'd been out cold for days—or weeks, or however long.

I stood up, steady as ever, and for a moment, I wondered if I should be panicking. But I wasn't.

Not yet.

There was a mirror in the bathroom.

I looked. 

Brown eyes stared back at me, plain as anything. Dark, curly hair—messy and unbrushed, like I'd been left to rot. Freckles dotted my cheeks.

Freckles?

i touched them like they were new, like they didn't belong there—or maybe they always had, and I just didn't remember. My brain was yelling at me, a storm of static trying to take shape, but nothing clicked.

"Wait... who am I?"The words left my mouth before I could stop them, sharp and jarring in the quiet. Panic clawed at my chest as the realization hit me, cold and brutal. It wasn't that I couldn't remember—it was that I didn't know.

When I walked back into the room, it was packed. People everywhere. Doctors, nurses—hell, maybe security? I don't know. I didn't care.

My eyes went straight to the woman in the middle.

She was crying.

No, scratch that—she was sobbing, like someone had gutted her. Her face was red and streaked with tears. Her hands were shaking, trying to cover her mouth like that would stop the noises coming out of her. She looked like she knew me, but I didn't know her.

 Did I?

Before I could say anything, a boy walked in. He had a bunch of stuff in his hands—bags, snacks, I don't know. He looked like me?

"Hey, Mom, I got the—" he stopped mid-sentence. His head snapped toward me so fast he dropped what he was holding. His mouth opened, then shut. His eyes went wide.

"Y- you woke up!" he said. Then he ran at me. Hugged me so hard it knocked the air out of my lungs.

I froze. My arms stayed at my sides for half a second before something in me took over. I hugged him back, like my body knew him even though my mind didn't. He smelled like soap and sweat, and I felt the weirdest rush of comfort, like I'd done this before.

"Uh... hi?" My voice cracked. I pulled back a little, trying to get my bearings. "Who are you? And, uh, what's going on? Do I know you?"The boy stepped back like I'd hit him. The woman—his mom, I guessed—made this choking sound. Her knees buckled, and before I could say anything else, she just... collapsed.

I didn't move. I couldn't. The boy yelled something, doctors rushed in, and the room exploded into noise, but I stayed frozen. My heart was pounding, my stomach twisted in knots.

Who the hell were these people? And who the hell was I?

They said it was retrograde amnesia. They said I'd been in a coma for over a year.They said a lot of things. But I couldn't wrap my head around any of it.

How do you lose everything? Every memory, every piece of who you are, wiped out like it was never there? At first, I thought I'd feel something.

Sadness. Fear. Anger. Anything. But I felt... nothing.

Not even when I saw them.

Not the woman with red, swollen eyes who kept crying.

Not the man with the tight jaw who kept whispering "sweetheart" like it would fix everything.

Not the boy they said was my twin, who wouldn't even look at me.

They told me these people were my family.

My family.But they didn't feel like family. They felt like strangers.

Strangers who looked at me like I was supposed to be someone I wasn't.The doctors said it made sense. That I'd still have my "normal impulses," whatever that meant. I could read, write, drive, understand things. I could tell you what a car was or how to tie my shoes.

But I couldn't tell you who I was.They called me Crystal.

The woman—Mom, apparently—called me baby like it was my name.

The man—Dad, I guess—kept saying sweetheart, like maybe it would jog something.

But to me, they were just woman and man.

 The more they talked, the more frustrated I got. Because they kept expecting me to feel something. To remember something.

To be someone.

But there was nothing.

Not for them.

Not for myself.

It was like I'd been erased, wiped clean, with nothing left behind. And I didn't know how to tell them that.

The first few days of recovery were... strange. They had me doing physical therapy, running tests on my brain, checking if I could still think, still move, still be a "functional member of society." Whatever that means.

I wanted to ask questions. God, I wanted to.

How old am I?

What happened to me?

How did I even get here?

But I didn't. I kept quiet.

It wasn't like my body hurt or anything. I wasn't in pain. One of the nurses told me that sometimes, our memories—especially the bad ones—don't want to stick around.

She said they rewrite themselves, try to hide somewhere deeper, like they're protecting us from something we're not ready for.

She said when they finally come back, I should let them. Welcome them, even. Open arms, or some crap like that.

Now here I am.

Sitting in the back seat of some big car, staring out the window, heading to a house they told me I used to live in.

It's huge. Too big, if you ask me. I felt overwhelmed.

Because inside that house are people who think they know me. Who are waiting for me to remember them, to love them again, to be whoever I used to be.

But I'm not her.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And I don't know if I'm ready to pretend I am. I read a book about new beginnings once. One of the nurses gave it to me at the hospital when I couldn't sleep. The writer said something about how, when you enter a new space, you should smile.

That was bullshit. Why would I smile? Could I even smile?

After reading that page, I went into the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and tried. I moved my face in weird little circles until my teeth showed. It looked awful. But I noticed something—I had good teeth. 

Like, really good teeth. Which was funny, because I'd been asleep for almost a year. Shouldn't they have been... worse?

I also realized something else at that moment: I like swearing. My brain knows a lot of curse words. I don't know if I used to swear before, but now?

It felt natural.

So, when a man in a grey suit opened the car door for me and ushered the man I was supposed to call "Dad"—James, I think—out, I didn't bother with that fake smile crap. But I guess I was still thinking about it because my face must've twitched or something.

James—Dad? —was the one who brought me here. To this house. When I asked about the woman—the one they said was my mom—I didn't call her "Mom." I called her "Denise." He didn't like that. He said she wouldn't like it either, but he understood.I nodded like that made sense, even though it didn't.

The house was warm. Too warm. And it smelled like cookies. I sniffed the air without meaning to, and James—Dad—must've noticed because he smiled. It wasn't the fake kind either; it was one of those warm, soft ones. He took my coat off me and handed it to a butler.

A butler.

"We're rich," I said, mostly to myself.James laughed. A big, full laugh. I didn't get what was so funny, but before I could ask, these little legs came barreling toward me. Something hit me—someone, I guess—so hard I almost fell.

James caught me like he was used to it and tapped the kid on the head.

"Crys, Crys!" the little girl said.

I looked down. She couldn't have been more than five, maybe six. She clung to me, her face squished against my legs. I glanced at James, hoping for help, because what the hell was, I supposed to do with this?

He smiled again, calm, like he expected this. "Later, Penny. Big sis is tired."The girl—Penny—whined, "No, I want to stay with Crys, Crys!"

"Where are your brothers?" James asked her.

"Out. They're getting supplies for Mom. She's cooking," Penny said, her voice muffled against my pants.

"Really?" he said, his voice light, like he was trying to distract her. Then, just like that, he walked off.

And Penny?

She stayed glued to me. I didn't know what to do with Penny. She clung to me like I was her favorite stuffed animal, and every time I tried to gently pry her off, she would latch on harder. I couldn't exactly tell her to let go either—not when she was looking up at me with those big, hopeful eyes, like I was supposed to be someone.

Someone I didn't remember being. So, I just... stood there. Penny didn't care about my awkwardness. She started talking a mile a minute about everything. What she'd done today, what she wanted for Christmas, what her favorite color was—purple, by the way—and something about a cookie jar she wasn't supposed to touch but did anyway.

I nodded a lot, pretending I was following along. James—Dad—was back in a flash, like he'd timed how long I could last with Penny before breaking. "Come on, Penny," he said, reaching out to her. "Let's let your sister get settled."

"No!" Penny said, burying her face against my side.

James sighed. "Penny, later. I promise. She's tired"

She pouted, her lip sticking out so far it looked like it might fall off her face. "You said she'd play with me when she got home"

Home. 

That word hit me harder than I expected. This wasn't home. It didn't feel like home.

But I didn't say that. I just let James peel her off me and carry her away, her little hands reaching out dramatically like she was being dragged to her doom. "Crys, Crys!" she wailed. "Come back!"I watched them disappear down a hallway, my chest feeling tight and hollow all at once. What was I supposed to do with all of this? The smell of cookies was stronger now, warm and sweet, and my stomach growled before I could stop it.

"She's baking chocolate chips," a voice said behind me. I turned, and there he was—David, my older brother. I recognized him immediately. He'd been visiting almost every day since I woke up, and the only reason he hadn't been there on the first day was because he was picking up Luke, another brother, from the airport. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he stood there, holding a bag of groceries.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his tone casual, like we'd had this exact conversation a hundred times before. "Want to grab a cookie? Mom won't mind."

For a second, I just stared at him. Part of me wanted to say no, to curl up somewhere and figure out what the hell I was doing here. But another part of me—the part that didn't want to deal with James or Penny or my own tangled mess of a brain—was already moving.

"Sure," I said, like it was no big deal. David grinned, like I'd just passed some secret sibling test, and turned toward the kitchen. He walked like he owned the world, talking casually about cookies and how Denise—mom, my brain corrected—always baked when she was stressed.

I thought he looked like James. I followed him, shoving my hands deep into my pockets, each step slower than the last. The smell of cookies hit me before we even reached the kitchen, warm and buttery. There she was—Denise, Mom—pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. She glanced up as we entered, her eyes meeting mine, and for a second, the whole room felt heavier, like everyone was holding their breath.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, her voice careful, like she was afraid of scaring me off.I stayed in the doorway, grateful that she didn't immediately pounce on me with questions. It gave me time to stay invisible, to just be without having to explain who I was or why I felt so... detached. "Where are your brothers?" she asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel."Bringing in the rest of the bags," David said, setting his groceries on the counter like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He turned to me, motioning me forward. "Crystal, come on in." The sound of my name—well, snapped me out of my thoughts. I flinched, not realizing he'd been talking to me. When I looked up, he was smiling, so annoyingly confident, like nothing about this was weird. Denise's—Mom's—eyes flicked over to me, her hands still twisting the dish towel. Her smile wavered, cautious but warm. "You, hungry sweetheart?" she asked. Sweetheart again. Everyone in this house had some nickname for me, and none of them fit."I'm fine," I said, stepping into the room.

The lie felt too easy, like it belonged to someone else. David didn't seem to notice—or maybe he didn't care. He reached for the tray of cookies and grabbed one like he owned them.

"These are the best," he said, his mouth half full. "Mom's been making these since, we were kids."I hovered near the doorway, watching him talk like we were supposed to share this memory. Like I was supposed to nod along and say, Yeah, I remember. "They smell good," I muttered instead, keeping my voice neutral.

Denise smiled at that, her shoulders relaxing slightly, like she'd won some tiny victory. She held the tray out to me, the cookies still steaming. "Try one," she said gently. I hesitated. Taking a cookie felt... weird. Like it would mean accepting something I wasn't ready for. That I belonged here.

But my stomach growled, and David smirked, catching it like a bloodhound. "Go on," he said, waving his half-eaten cookie at me. So, I grabbed one. The cookie was soft and warm, and when I bit into it, the chocolate melted on my tongue.

It was good. Too good.

The kind of good that makes you feel something you don't want to feel."Good, right?" David asked, his grin widening like he already knew the answer.I nodded, swallowing around the lump forming in my throat. She watched me, her smile still careful, like she was holding back a million words. Like she wanted to know if this—if I—was working. But I couldn't give her that. So, I just ate the cookie in silence, letting it fill the space where all the answers should have been. Denise—Mom—was busying herself with the cookies, but her eyes flicked toward me every few seconds, careful and searching. David had settled into leaning against the fridge, munching his second—or maybe third cookie, utterly unfazed by the tension.The sound of the front door opening shattered the quiet.

"Finally," David said, shoving the rest of his cookie into his mouth and dusting his hands off. "That's Isaac and Luke." Footsteps pounded through the hallway, followed by the unmistakable thud of bags hitting the floor. "We got everything, Mom!" someone yelled. The voice was deep, loud, and tinged with what I could only describe as eldest-child energy.

Luke.

Dennise perked up immediately, setting her dish towel down and stepping toward the doorway. "Bring them to the kitchen!" she called, her voice bright but stretched too tight.

Luke walked in first, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark curls framing a face that seemed perpetually on the edge of a smirk. He carried more grocery bags than seemed reasonable, like he was trying to prove something.

Behind him was Isaac, my twin. Or, well, the male version of me—if I had a sharper jawline, shorter hair, and an affinity for winning arguments. He was grinning like a kid who'd just stolen the last slice of cake, his own load of bags much smaller.

"Beat you," Luke declared, dumping his bags onto the counter with an exaggerated huff.

Isaac rolled his eyes. "You carried half as much."

"Still counts," Luke said, shrugging before turning toward me. His grin softened as his eyes landed on me. "Hey, Cryssy."

That nickname again.

It sounded ridiculous all at once, like a sweater I hadn't worn in years but couldn't throw away.

"Hi," I mumbled, my voice barely audible.

Turning towards Isaac.

"Hi"

I said to Isaac He nodded, his eyes searching mine briefly before he turned back to the bags.

Luke, meanwhile, set his down with far more precision, straightening and brushing off his hands. His gaze flicked to me, and I caught a glimpse of hesitation behind his usual confidence.

"You look... good," he said, his voice awkward like he wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say.I nodded, keeping my eyes on the floor. "Thanks." Then Mom stepped in, her forced cheerfulness cutting through the awkwardness like a butter knife through overcooked steak. "Okay, boys, enough standing around. Let's get these bags unpacked."Luke gave a curt nod, his expression tightening as he grabbed another bag and retreated to what I would assume was the pantry. Isaac lingered a moment longer, his gaze flicking between me and the doorway, like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out how.

When I didn't make it easier for him, he sighed softly and followed Luke out.

David watched the entire exchange, his arms crossed and a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Well, that wasn't awkward at all," he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I snorted—an involuntary reaction that made him grin wider. At least someone was having fun with this train wreck. Denise sighed, smoothing her hands over her apron. "They mean well," she said softly, her voice tinged with something I couldn't quite place. Regret? Guilt?

"It's just... it's been hard on all of us."

i didn't respond.

What was I supposed to say?

That it had been hard on me too?

That waking up to a family I didn't remember felt like being dropped into the middle of someone else's life.

"Um, do you need me to do something?" I asked Denise—Mom—hesitantly, though my voice sounded more eager than I felt. Truthfully, I just wanted to get out of the room, away from the lingering gazes and forced cheerfulness that made my skin itch. She looked around, her hands fiddling with her sweater.

"Oh, uh... sure. Could you set the table? I told the butler he could take the rest of the day off now that you're home." Her explanation felt unnecessarily formal, like she was trying to justify herself to me."Okay," I said, and before I could think too hard about it, my feet were moving toward the cabinet.

I pulled out plates without hesitation, counting them automatically—seven. My hands moved to the drawer next, finding the forks and spoons. Seven of each.

It wasn't until I reached the dining area and started placing the settings that I realized how smoothly I'd done it. I hadn't had to ask where anything was. My body—or maybe my brain, wherever those instincts lived—just knew.

By the time I returned to the kitchen for the second round, it hit me that I'd been working on autopilot. I wasn't sure if that made me feel proud or terrified.

"Setting dinner plates on two trips—that should be a record!"

I joked, hoping to break the tension hanging in the air.

But the room went silent.Isaac, Luke and James were already in the kitchen, Penny in David's hands. I looked around, my fake cheerfulness shrivelling.

"Did I... do something wrong?"Denise stepped forward, her hands tightening on the towel she still held. "No, sweetheart. It's just..." She hesitated, her eyes flicking to James for a moment before she continued. "You used to do that before. Setting the table— and um... counting how long.... it was kind of... your thing."

Her voice was soft, almost apologetic. My heart lurched, a strange mix of anger and sadness rising in my chest. Of course it was. Everything about me seemed to have belonged to someone else—the girl they remembered. The one I didn't.

Denise stopped a few feet away from me, her eyes searching my face like she was trying to gauge my reaction. I think she was about to hug me, but when my hands tightened around the edge of the counter, she pulled back, letting out a breath.

"Let's get the food on the table, boys," James said, his voice steady but firm.It was like a spell broke. Everyone moved at once—Luke grabbed a casserole dish, Isaac started pulling lids off bowls, Penny rushed to grab the breadbasket even though it was too big for her.

Denise gave me one last look before joining them, her smile small but reassuring.I stood there for a moment, watching the chaos unfold.

This family. My family.

They moved like a well-oiled machine, like they'd done this a thousand times before.

This was going to be a long, hard first day.

After the meal—it might have been lunch, or maybe dinner; everything was blurring together—James, or Dad, carried Penny in his arms. She had fallen asleep watching tv, her head resting against his shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway.

Isaac stayed behind, offering to give me a tour of the house. I didn't refuse, though I probably should have. It didn't take long to realize he wasn't much of a talker as much as he liked to win arguments.

"Bathroom," he'd say, pointing to a door.

"Guest room," another point.

"Parents' room," another quick gesture.

It was efficient but infuriating. Everyone seemed to have their own space. Penny's room was conveniently close to Denise and James's room—Mom and Dad, I corrected in my head—but everything else felt scattered and confusing, much like my thoughts.

"Look," I finally said, stopping mid-step. "If you don't want to show me, it's fine." My irritation bled into my tone. I was tired, overwhelmed, and completely over the half-hearted tour.

I turned on my heel, walking ahead of him without waiting for a response.

Isaac didn't say anything, so I kept going until I came across a door with the words KEEP OUT scrawled across it in bold, uneven letters.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob."That's yours," Isaac said quietly from behind me.

I froze. My stomach flipped, a mix of curiosity and dread. "Oh, um..." My voice trailed off.

Before I could second-guess myself, I pushed the door open. The room was... chaotic, to say the least. Posters covered the walls—bands, movies, random artwork. A cork board hung crookedly to the left, cluttered with photos, concert tickets, and scraps of paper with barely legible handwriting. Clothes were strewn across a chair in the corner, and a desk sat by the window, cluttered with notebooks, pens, and what looked like an old Polaroid camera. Isaac leaned against the doorway; his arms crossed. "Mom wanted to live things the way you left it, with the occasional cleaning," he said, his voice softer now. I stepped inside, my feet sinking into the plush rug. My eyes landed on the bed—messy, but made, with a throw blanket crumpled at the foot. On the nightstand sat framed photos. Me smiling with everyone, pictures of Dennis and James, pictures of the boys, a picture of penny, pictures of me smiling. But one caught my eye, so I picked it up carefully. It was of me sitting between Isaac and a hot guy, all of us grinning like we didn't have a care in the world.

The girl in the photo looked so alive."That was last year," Isaac said, stepping closer. "Before... everything."I didn't respond. My chest felt tight, like I couldn't breathe.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and spice. Great, I could remember the smell, but I could not remember my life. Fucking hell.

I set the photo down and turned to Isaac. "Can I... have a moment?He nodded immediately, stepping back.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be in my room if you need anything. it's the room opposite yours"

When the door clicked shut, I exhaled slowly, my fingers grazing the edge of the desk.

This was supposed to be mine, but it felt like a stranger's life on display.