I died on a Tuesday.
Which made waking up on a Wednesday extremely inconvenient.
The ceiling was white. Flawless. The kind of white that costs more than my monthly rent used to.
I heard beeping sounds on my left. Heart monitor. Hospital smell — antiseptic and fear.
"Vin?"
The voice was young, female, and completely wrecked.
I turned my head slowly. Everything hurt. Or maybe nothing hurt and my body was just confused. Like waking up after cheap vodka, except I hadn't had cheap vodka since—
"Vin, can you hear me? Please. Please, open your eyes."
They were open. Rude of her not to notice.
She was staring right at me. Dark long hair. Dark circles. A face that hadn't smiled in days. She was holding my hand too tight.
"Vincent?"
That name hit my ears like a stone dropped in deep water. It meant nothing to me, but she said it like it was mine. It wasn't. My name was Gabriel.
I tried to speak. My throat felt like sandpaper.
"Who..."
She went rigid.
I forced the words out. "Who are you?"
She stared at me for a long second. Then stood up so fast her chair scraped the floor — a noise that felt personally offensive.
"I'm getting the doctor."
She left so fast the door barely caught on its hinge.
I looked down at my hands. They weren't my hands. These hands had never nervously texted an ex at 2 a.m. These hands had potential. And soft skin. And zero Cheeto dust.
***
She came back with a man in a white coat. Middle-aged. Tired. The girl stood in the corner. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. She looked like she was deciding whether to hug me or fight me.
The doctor asked the usual questions.
"What's your name?"
Gabriel. The name sat on my tongue, ready to go. But I swallowed it. Because Gabriel was dead. Gabriel was the guy who got hit by a truck. Gabriel didn't have these hands or a girl who looked like she hadn't slept in a week.
The doctor waited. The girl in the corner held her breath.
"I don't know," I finally said.
The doctor wrote something on his clipboard. The girl looked away. She pressed her fist against her mouth.
"Do you know where you are?"
"A... hospital." I glanced around. "I guess."
"Do you know what year it is?"
I thought about it. Nothing.
"No," I said. "I don't know that either."
He frowned. Tapped his pen against the clipboard. Then asked, "Do you remember the accident?"
I remembered everything. The headlights. The screech. The moment the world folded in on itself.
But that wasn't Vincent's memories.
"No," I said.
"Do you know who she is?" He pointed at the girl.
I looked at her. Really looked.
"No," I said. "Sorry."
She swallowed, then nodded like she expected it. Like it still hurt anyway.
The doctor sighed. Wrote something on his clipboard. "Selective amnesia. Common after traumatic accidents. The memories may return gradually, or they may not. We'll run more tests."
Selective amnesia. Sure. Let's go with that.
He turned to the girl. "I'll give you two a moment."
Then he left. The girl didn't move.
After a moment, she walked to my bedside, and sat down. She took my hand again, slower this time. Either she loved me or she was checking my pulse to see if I was faking.
"I'm Vi," she said. Her voice was quiet. Steady. Like she was talking to a scared animal. Or a very confused one that had just eaten something it shouldn't have. "Victoria. Your baby sister. You can't really have forgotten me."
I looked at her face. Searched for any recognition.
"I'm sorry," I said.
She swallowed, nodded, but didn't let go of my hand.
"You're an idiot," she whispered. "You absolute idiot. I thought you were dead."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
Still, she stayed.
And for the first time in my life — even if I was wearing a stranger's body, even if the girl holding my hand looked like she might cry or commit murder — I realized something.
I didn't feel completely alone.