I hear footsteps in the hall and take that as my cue to start heading out. People will be arriving soon, and I’m not quite sure I’m strong enough to deal with everyone. Half feel sorry for me and the other half blame me.

I’m not sure which one is worse.

“Aspen…” I hear my dad’s deep voice. I turn and face him, his lips set in a firm line, his eyes as empty as I feel right now. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”

I swallow at his tense features, but nod and follow him out of the room. He barely speaks or looks at me now. I’m only a constant reminder of what happened—of who he’s lost—of how our lives are forever changed.

He leads me to a small room on the other side of the hall where she’s sitting with her nose buried in a handkerchief.

I stand in front of her and wait. I’m not sure what to say to my mom right now—or anyone for that matter. I’m not sure there’s anything I can say.

“I need to hear the story one more time,” she chokes out. “I need to hear why my baby girl is dead.”

Her head is low and she refuses to look at me. I’ve told her and the police the story several times already, but every day since the incident, she’s demanded to hear it again.

“Mom…” I begin, my eyes filling up again. “I can’t. Not again.”

“Tell me!” She raises her voice, finally tilting her head to look up at me, her face contorted in a mixture of grief and disgust.

I do as she says. I repeat the story the exact same way I did the first dozen times. No matter how much it hurts to talk about, I explain what happened.

“How could you let that happen?” she mumbles. “How could you be so careless? I just don’t understand!”

“Mom, it’s not Aspen’s fault…” Aaron interrupts, stepping next to me.

“Mama, I’m sorry,” I burst into a new wave of tears. I’ve apologized to her and Daddy over and over. But I know they’ll never forgive me.

I’ll never forgive me.

Aaron wraps an arm around my shoulders and cradles me to his chest. I hear my mom huff in disapproval. I push against his chest, wiping the tears from my cheeks as I storm off.

I’ll never forget the way her eyes widened in fear as she fell to her death. The way her body lay on the ground, motionless. The way her voice begged for my help as she screamed on the way down.

I’ll never forget.

I don’t tell Mom and Dad those things, though. The images already haunt me in my sleep. The sound of her screaming has woken me up the past two nights. Every time I attempt to fall asleep, her dead eyes appear in my mind. It’s no use, I tell myself. There’s barely a difference between existing and sleeping now.

Life without her is pointless.

People start arriving, so Mom, Dad, Aaron, and I all stand in front near her casket. I swallow my emotions down and refuse to cry. I shut down. I shut everything down. I let them hug me and say how sorry they are for our loss. I let them cradle my head as they press me against their chests. I let them squeeze my hands as they tell me how much she will be missed. I let them do whatever they need to express their feelings. But I don’t cry. I quietly thank them and look down at my feet.

When the service is over, we gather at the cemetery to bury her. A large bouquet of white lilies rests on her closed casket. I step forward and pull one out for myself before they lower her into the ground. Mom and Dad do the same, but they don’t look at me. Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s shoulders, holding her close as she cries.

I grip the obituary program tightly in my hand and stare down at her picture displayed on the cover. Mom used her most recent school photo from this past year although it hadn’t been her favorite. I don’t know why, though. She looked stunning as usual—bright smile, sparkling green eyes, and flowing golden blonde hair.

Underneath it reads, Loving Daughter and Sister. Gone too soon but never forgotten. 4-10-1995 to 4–10-2009.

She died on our birthday.

I swallow as I take it all in. April tenth was our favorite day. We’d wake up early to Mom making us our favorite breakfast—the only day of the year she’d make it. Belgian waffles with melted cream cheese frosting drizzled on top and then slathered in homemade maple syrup. She used fresh blueberries—instead of frozen—on top. She called it our special birthday breakfast, and every year we looked forward to it.

After we finished eating, we’d rip our presents open from our parents and later on exchange the ones we made for each other. For the last few years, we’d talk Mom into letting us skip school for the day. She wouldn’t even bother arguing with us, knowing she’d eventually cave anyway. So when we woke up on our birthday five days ago, we’d done everything exactly the same.

We laughed all through breakfast. Mom was going on and on about how she couldn’t believe how grown up her baby girls were getting and how old that made her feel. Aaron was three years older than we were, but apparently, he was born out of wedlock and didn’t count in her aging process.

After we had finished eating, Mom handed us each a card and watched as we ripped them open. We both squealed when we saw the hundred-dollar bill tucked inside.

As we wrapped our arms around her, she lectured us. “Don’t spend it all in one place, girls!” We then begged her to take us to the mall so we could, of course, spend it on clothes and makeup.

“You’ll have to wait until your father gets back,” she said, piling the dishes into the sink. We ran upstairs and got dressed, setting our money down on the dresser and running back outside. It was warm for April, just a slight breeze in the air.

It was perfect.

I smile at the memory of our birthday traditions. It was something we’ve always shared. Should have shared forever.

She’d always tease me about how she was older, granted it was only by three minutes, but now the day would be pointless.

A painful reminder of what had happened.

Of what I lost.

CHAPTER ONE

ASPEN

Even after six years, I can still hear her voice in my head. Her giggles. Her silly jokes. The way she’d snort after hearing something funny.

I hear it all.

It used to keep me up at night. I’d wake up in cold sweats, heaving and panting as I painfully relived our childhood memories. I don’t mind the dreams as much anymore—anything to see or hear her again—but I could do without the anxiety attacks that come with them. They come without warning and wreak havoc in my entire life.

Losing my twin sister feels like a part of me of missing—as if my soul isn’t complete without her.

Feeling the overwhelming guilt and wishing you had been the one to die that day instead will not only get you an unhealthy dose of post-traumatic stress, but also more therapy than you can imagine. After standard therapy proved useless, the counselors then decided to go an unconventional route. But not just any therapy.

Art therapy.

When you refuse to talk about your feelings to your therapist for eight months, you get placed into something that doesn’t require any talking at all. This was fine by me and actually ended up being a blessing in disguise. It helped me find my passion for art and pointed me in the direction of finding a career in art history.

I think about Ari every day, more so when I’m in my studio, but she’s always on my mind no matter what. We were identical twins, but sometimes I think about what she’d look like now. We could still be a perfect match, but maybe she would’ve dyed her hair or shaved half of her head and streaked it purple. Maybe she would’ve needed glasses and braces, or perhaps she’d taken after my mom’s rebellious side and gotten a tattoo on our eighteen birthday.

Whatever she would’ve looked like, I know she would’ve been beautiful. Not just on the outside, but the inside, as well. Her soul was the most beautiful one I’d ever met.