The walk home felt heavier than usual, as if every step dragged something behind me. The last of the sun dipped low, bleeding through the cracks of the city and painting the streets with a dying gold. Students still lingered around the gates, laughing, chatting, throwing words into the air that dissolved before they ever reached me.
I tugged my sleeves over my hands, staring down at them as I walked. Always pale. Always white. If I clenched them into fists hard enough, I could see faint veins, but they never bloomed into that healthy pink I'd seen on everyone else. My biology teacher's voice echoed in my head like a taunt: "Press and release. Watch the color return."
For everyone else, it had. For me, there had only been silence beneath the skin.
"Hey, are you okay?" a voice broke through my thoughts.
I blinked up.Aisha—the new transfer student—walked beside me, adjusting the strap of her bag. She'd only been here a few weeks, and since she sat beside me in class, I tried to make her feel less out of place.She had that concerned look people wore when they weren't sure if you were sick or strange.
"I'm fine," I lied, quick, sharp. "Just tired."
Her eyes flickered to my hands before she nodded slowly. "Okay. Just… you looked a little pale today."
Pale. The word stabbed deeper than she knew.
I forced a smile, said goodbye too quickly, and cut down a quieter street toward home.
---
The house smelled different before I even opened the door. Sweet. Sharp. Metallic. Not the usual pepper and onions that clung to our walls.
"Wash your hands," my mother called from the kitchen the moment I stepped in. Her voice was rushed, almost rehearsed. "Dinner's almost ready."
I dropped my bag, padding to the sink. Warm water rushed over my skin, but it didn't change the color of my palms. I scrubbed anyway, staring at them like maybe this time they'd decide to behave like normal hands.
They didn't.
I swallowed hard, wiped them on a towel, and followed the strange scent to the kitchen.
My mother stood over the stove, stirring a pot. Steam curled up, thick and tinted red. She turned quickly when she heard me, a smile snapping onto her face too fast to be natural.
"Sit," she said, ladling the stew into bowls.
When she set mine in front of me, I froze. The liquid shimmered a deep crimson, richer than any tomato base. It almost glowed under the kitchen light, like it had been pulled from somewhere it didn't belong.
"What's in it?" I asked. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.
"Vegetables. Herbs." She placed her own bowl down, avoiding my eyes. "It's good for your blood."
The word blood landed like a stone on the table.
I lifted my spoon slowly, the steam ghosting against my face. The first sip was warmth curling through my chest, but then… that taste. Sweet, yes, but under it a sharpness that clawed the back of my throat. Like iron. Like pennies. Like—
Blood.
I coughed, setting the spoon down. "It tastes… different."
Her hand paused mid-stir of her own bowl. "Different how?"
"Like—" I stopped, biting my tongue before I could say it.
Her eyes flicked to me, then away. "It's just the leaves I boiled earlier. They turn red when you cook them. It's normal."
Leaves. My mind snapped back to the memory of pressing them between my fingers. Nothing. No color. No stain. Just green.
"Right," I said softly, though the word trembled.
I pushed the stew around with my spoon, watching the red cling stubbornly to the edges. My mother ate quietly, too quietly, her shoulders stiff with every motion. The clink of her spoon against the bowl felt louder than any conversation.
By the time I excused myself, my stomach was tight with unease, the metallic taste still clinging to my tongue.
---
That night, sleep refused to come. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the house creaking in its quiet. My body felt strange, buzzing beneath the skin, like the stew had seeped into my veins.
I tossed, turned, pressed my hands over my chest just to feel my heartbeat. Too fast. Too light.
Somewhere in the house, a whisper rose. Faint. Rhythmic. Like someone murmuring words I couldn't catch. My mother's voice? The thought chilled me, but I couldn't move.
Finally, I slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the floor, and padded down the hall to the bathroom.
The fluorescent light flickered when I turned it on, buzzing in that unsettling way it always did. My reflection blinked back at me—paler than ever, shadows under my eyes, lips dull.
But then, in the hairline crack slicing down the mirror's surface, something shimmered.
Red.
The same red as the stew.
I leaned closer, heart thudding unevenly. My reflection leaned too, but something was off. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, slow, deliberate. A smirk.
I wasn't smiling.
The light above buzzed louder, flickered once, twice. The air turned cold enough to sting my arms.
"No," I whispered. My breath fogged the glass, though I hadn't leaned close enough for it to.
And then the cup by the sink toppled, shattering against the tiles. I jerked back, my hand flying to catch it, but glass sliced across my palm.
The sting came first. Sharp. Then I stared, waiting for the blood.
It trickled slowly, faint, watery. Barely red at all.
But in the mirror, my reflection lifted her palm too—and crimson spilled down her hand in thick, healthy rivers.
Her smirk widened, teeth glinting sharper than they should.
I stumbled back, clutching my useless, pale cut, while she lingered, still smiling long after I'd moved away.
For the first time, I wasn't sure if the girl in the mirror was me at all.