Elia always knew she felt more than others. Not better—just louder. Every glance, every whisper, every silence echoed inside her like a shout. She didn’t know when it started, only that it never stopped.

At school, she moved like a shadow. Junie used to walk beside her, their arms brushing, their laughter tangled. But lately, Junie laughed with Rowan. And Rowan’s laugh was sharp, like glass. Elia didn’t need to hear the words to know they were about her.

She told herself it didn’t matter. But it did.

She sat in the back of class, fingers curled around her pencil, heart thudding like it was trying to escape. The

teacher’s voice blurred. The room blurred. Her thoughts blurred.

And then—she slipped.

It wasn’t falling. It was diving. Into memory.

Not hers.

She stood in a kitchen that smelled like lavender and burnt toast. Mara—her mother—was younger here. Tired. Folding a tiny blanket with trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” Mara whispered, pressing the blanket to her face. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Elia watched, unseen. Her chest ached. She wanted to scream, “Say it! Say you love me!” But the memory was

sealed. It had already happened. It couldn’t change.

She stepped back. The kitchen faded. Her own bedroom returned—dim, quiet, too clean.

She had found something. A truth. But it wasn’t enough.

The next day, she tried again.

She brushed past Silas—her father—on the way to school. He didn’t look up. He never did.

She dove.

Silas’s memory was colder. A locked drawer. Inside, a crumpled drawing: stick figures, a sun, a crooked heart labeled “Dad.”

He stared at it for a long time. Then folded it, slowly, and placed it back in the drawer.

“She’ll be stronger without me,” he thought. Not aloud. Just a whisper in his mind.

Elia felt the words like a slap. She wanted to scream again. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t really there.

Each dive left her emptier.

She forgot what her own room looked like. Forgot the sound of her laugh. Forgot the way Junie used to braid her hair.

But she kept diving.

Because maybe, just maybe, someone had loved her. And

maybe, if she saw it, she’d believe it.

One night, she stood in front of her mirror and tried to remember her favorite song. The one she used to hum while brushing her teeth. The one Junie said made her feel brave.

Nothing came.

She stared at her reflection. Her face looked familiar. But her name felt distant.

She whispered, “I’m Elia.”

The mirror didn’t answer.

Elia stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door to her mother’s room. The silence between them had grown thick—like fog. Mara loved her, Elia was sure of it. But love without words felt like a ghost.

She dove.

The memory opened in soft light. Mara was younger, her hair pulled back, her eyes tired. She stood in the kitchen, folding a tiny blanket. Elia’s baby blanket.

“I’m sorry,” Mara whispered, pressing the fabric to her face. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Elia watched, invisible. The blanket trembled in Mara’s

hands. A moment passed. Then another.

Another memory bloomed.

Mara stood in the living room, arguing with Silas. “She’s sensitive,” she said. “She needs more than rules.”

“She needs strength,” Silas replied.

Mara’s voice cracked. “She needs to know she’s loved.”

Elia felt the words like a balm. But they weren’t said to her. They were buried in time.

Later, Mara sat alone, staring at a photo of Elia as a toddler. She traced the edges of the frame, then tucked it into a drawer.

“She won’t remember this,” she murmured. “But I will.”

Elia surfaced from the memory, her heart aching. She had seen love. Quiet, clumsy, real. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted proof.

She tried to remember her own baby blanket. The color. The texture.

Nothing came.

She dove again.

Mara was in the garden, planting lavender. Her hands were dirty, her face streaked with sweat. She paused, looked up at the sky, and whispered, “I hope she knows.”

Elia wanted to scream, “I don’t! I don’t know!”

But the memory didn’t hear her.

Back in her room, Elia stared at her hands. They looked familiar. But her favorite flower? Gone. Her mother’s voice? Fading.

She had found love. But lost something else.

Elia stood at the edge of her father’s study. The door was ajar, the room dim. Silas was inside, silent as always. His love was a locked box. She needed to open it.

She dove.

The memory was cold.

Silas sat at his desk, staring at a crumpled drawing. Stick figures. A sun. A crooked heart labeled “Dad.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t cry. He folded the drawing and placed it in a drawer.

“She’ll be stronger without me,” he thought.

Elia felt the words like ice.

Another memory flickered.

Silas stood outside Elia’s bedroom, hand raised to knock. He didn’t. He turned away.

Inside, Elia had been crying.

Later, Silas sat in the garage, fixing a broken chair. His hands moved with precision. His thoughts were quiet.

“She’s too soft,” he thought. “She’ll break.”

Elia wanted to shout, “I’m not broken! I’m just loud!”

But the memory was sealed.

She dove deeper.

Silas was younger, holding baby Elia. He looked terrified. He whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Elia watched, stunned. She had never seen him afraid.

Back in her room, Elia tried to remember her father’s

laugh. Had he ever laughed?

Nothing came.

She had seen fear. Regret. Love, buried deep. But her own memories were slipping.

She stared at the drawer in his study. She had drawn that picture. But she couldn’t remember doing it.

She was becoming a ghost in her own life.

Junie had once been everything. Laughter. Loyalty. Light. But now, she laughed with Rowan. And Elia felt like a shadow.

She needed to know why.

She dove.

The memory opened in a bedroom filled with fairy lights. Junie and Elia lay on the floor, giggling, sharing secrets.

“I’ll never leave you,” Junie said.

Elia smiled. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Another memory flickered.

Junie sat at her desk, writing a letter.

“I miss you,” she wrote. “But I don’t know how to help. You’re slipping away.”

She never sent it.

Later, Junie stood in the hallway, watching Rowan mock Elia. Her fists clenched. She stepped forward.

“Leave her alone,” she said.

Rowan rolled her eyes. “Why do you care?”

Junie didn’t answer. She just walked away.

Elia watched, heart breaking. Junie had defended her. But she had also left.

She dove deeper.

Junie sat in her room, holding a bracelet Elia had made.

She whispered, “I wish you’d let me in.”

Elia wanted to cry. She had pushed Junie away. She hadn’t known.

Back in her room, Elia tried to remember the bracelet. The color. The beads.

Nothing came.

She had found loyalty. Regret. Love. But her own memories were fading.

She whispered, “Junie.”

The name felt distant.

She was unraveling.

Elia stood at the edge of the cafeteria, watching Rowan laugh with her friends. The sound was sharp, like glass breaking. It used to make her flinch. Now it made her curious.

Rowan had mocked her for years—called her “ghost girl,” “crybaby,” “too much.” But cruelty had a shape, and Elia wanted to see what was underneath.

She closed her eyes.

She dove.

The memory opened in a school hallway. Rowan stood alone, staring at her reflection in a trophy case. Her smile

was perfect. Her eyes were not.

“She’s so weird,” Rowan had said about Elia. But here, she whispered, “I wish I could be that honest.”

Elia watched, invisible. The hallway shimmered with insecurity.

Another memory flickered.

Rowan sat in the bathroom, knees pulled to her chest. Her makeup was smudged. In her hand was a note Elia had written years ago: You’re not as mean as you pretend to be.

Rowan folded it carefully, tucked it into her backpack like a secret.

Later, Rowan stood in her bedroom, tearing up a photo of herself. “I hate this version of me,” she whispered. “I don’t even know who I am.”

Elia felt the words like a mirror. She didn’t know who she was either.

She dove deeper.

Rowan was younger, maybe ten, sitting at a kitchen table while her parents argued. She scribbled in a notebook: Be loud. Be funny. Be untouchable.

Elia read the words and understood. Rowan’s cruelty wasn’t born—it was built.