Chapter Twenty-Two — The Weight of Silence
The city outside was loud — too loud.
Every sound scraped against Celia's nerves as if the world itself was mocking her stillness.
She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the hem of her nightgown, staring at her trembling hands. They weren't her hands anymore. Not completely.
Every movement carried echoes — Beverly's reflexes, Beverly's scars, Beverly's memories.
And last night… Beverly's pain.
The miscarriage.
The shame.
The loneliness.
Celia could still feel it — the echo of that hollow ache in her stomach, like a phantom wound.
She had cried herself dry. But the tears weren't just hers.
They were Beverly's farewell.
A knock at the door made her flinch.
She wiped her face quickly, forcing her voice steady. "Come in."
Prince stepped inside. His hair was messy, his shirt half buttoned, and his expression unreadable.
"Can we talk?" he asked quietly.
She froze. The world narrowed. His voice — his presence — it all stirred the ache inside her chest again.
He didn't know. He had no idea what his existence did to her.
Celia turned her face away. "Now's not a good time."
"I know," he said. "But it's been two days, and the internet's gone insane. Vanessa's post is everywhere. I thought maybe…" He trailed off, searching her face. "Maybe you'd tell me it's not true."
Celia managed a smile — thin, brittle. "Would it make a difference if I did?"
He blinked. "You were pregnant, Beverly. And they're saying it was mine."
His voice cracked slightly. "Tell me it's not true."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she said softly, "Does it really matter whose it was?"
Prince's breath caught. "Of course it matters."
"Not to me," she whispered.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and sharp.
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"You used to—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "You used to run from everything. Cry. Beg. Now you're just…" He hesitated. "Cold."
Celia looked up, meeting his eyes. "Maybe that's what happens when someone finally breaks."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't know, Beverly. I swear, if I did—"
She laughed softly, cutting him off. It wasn't cruel, just exhausted. "I know you didn't. That's what makes it worse."
Prince looked at her then — really looked. There was guilt in his eyes, yes, but also something else.
Curiosity. Confusion. A feeling he couldn't name.
He wanted to comfort her, but every instinct screamed that something about her was different.
She noticed his hesitation. "If you came here to ease your conscience, you can leave now."
"That's not why I came."
"Then why?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze softened. "Because you scare me," he admitted. "You look like Beverly. You sound like Beverly. But something about you… doesn't feel like her."
Her heart skipped. For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
"I'm exactly who you think I am," she said finally.
"Are you?"
She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "If I weren't, would you even care?"
He didn't answer. He just left.
When the door clicked shut, Celia exhaled shakily.
Her chest ached, her throat burned.
Prince's voice echoed in her mind — You scare me.
She turned toward the mirror, and for the briefest second, she saw two reflections overlapping — hers and Beverly's.
Then, like a ripple, they fused into one.
"I'm you now," Celia whispered to the mirror.
"But I won't die like you did."
Later that night, she received a message from an unknown number:
Welcome home, Beverly.
– An old friend is back in town.
Her blood ran cold.
Only one person used to call her that way — the one who smiled to her face and destroyed her behind her back.
Beverly's best friend.