They often say that love is a beautiful thing, yet I have never believed it. Perhaps my disbelief stems from never truly experiencing it myself, or perhaps it is because every love story around me has ended in misfortune. My great-grandmother divorced her husband after bearing three children. My grandmother followed the same path, leaving her husband after four, one of whom was my mother. My mother, despite the legacy of broken unions, convinced herself that her story would be different. She married her supposed Prince Charming, Ken—my father. A year and a half into their marriage, they welcomed me and my twin sister, Isabella and Jennifer.
For a brief time, our home was filled with warmth. But after four years of marriage, tragedy crept in. My father transformed from a tender, devoted man into a drunken tyrant. Alcohol consumed him, and cruelty soon followed. My parents eventually divorced. Only a few months after their separation, another calamity struck—I lost my twin sister. My dearest companion, my mirror, and my protector was taken by cancer. We were merely six years old. At her funeral, I wept until I could no longer breathe, silently begging death to take me as well, so I could follow her into eternity. But death was merciless. It abandoned me in a world without her.
Isabella had always been the bold one, fearless where I was timid. She defended me against bullies, stood between me and my parents' quarrels, and silenced every voice that sought to diminish me. Without her, I felt stripped of armor. Often, I wondered if my family was cursed, for not a single aunt or uncle had a harmonious marriage. Love, to me, was nothing more than a poisonous illusion—a force that shattered, weakened, and left its victims hollow.
Ten years have now passed since Isabella's death, yet her absence is as sharp as the day I buried her. My mother has tried to move on, though I know she still carries her wounds. I have caught her weeping in the silence of night, thinking herself unseen. She never remarried, though she pretends to be content. As for me, I remain shackled to grief. Every Saturday—through winter's frost, summer's blaze, autumn's winds, and spring's bloom—I visit Isabella's grave. There I sit, imagining what life might have been if she had survived. My mother tried to mend me, but the truth is simple: I am the only one with the power to let go, and I cannot.
High school was an exile. I had no friends, no confidants. I existed like a shadow, unseen and unacknowledged. My grades were excellent, yet my silence made me a phantom in the classroom. Whispers followed me—some claimed I was possessed. I pretended not to care, but deep inside, their words carved into me. Isabella, my shield, was gone, and I had no defense against the world. My life was a monotonous routine: school, library, then home. I read endlessly, though not even books could lift the weight from my soul.
I never indulged in social media. I clung stubbornly to the same iPhone 6 Plus I had used since eighth grade. My mother offered me new phones, but I always refused. She tried to push me into social life, even securing a restaurant job for me. Yet I quickly traded the role of server for cleaner—anything to avoid conversation.
In my solitude, I saved money. My mother exhausted herself trying to help me, but it was futile. I had crowned myself queen of isolation, president of the society of introverts. Friendship was a foreign concept, romance an impossibility. I believed love would always betray—by abandonment, by death, or by inevitable heartbreak. I could not decide whether my despair was born from my sister's death or my parents' shattered marriage; perhaps it was both.
Years after the divorce, my father remarried, seemingly having conquered his addictions. He now has three children with his new wife. He often begged me to visit, but resentment anchored me. I did not know whether it was jealousy or pain, but I refused him.
On my seventeenth birthday, my mother proposed a vacation. At first, I resisted. But eventually, I relented. She booked us five days at an ancient seaside resort called King's Beach and Sons, a place that had endured since the seventeenth century. Only then did I realize how outdated my wardrobe was; I dressed like a ghost from the 1980s. Three days before departure, I approached my mother and asked for new clothes—and, for the first time in years, a new phone. She was ecstatic. For so long she had wished to give me a transformation, and now I had finally permitted it.
We spent hours at the mall selecting elegant clothes, and she purchased for me an iPhone 12 Pro Max. From there, we went to the salon. While my hair was being styled, I noticed a pair of twins across the room. The sight pierced me—two girls my age, laughing together, living the bond I had lost. My heart ached, though I forced a smile. I should have been celebrating this birthday with Isabella. Instead, I celebrated alone.
When my hair was finished, I stared into the mirror. For the first time, I did not see a broken girl; I saw a princess. That evening, before we left, I visited Isabella's grave. I whispered to her, sat in silence, and felt a strange shift in my heart. She would have wanted me to live, not remain imprisoned in sorrow.
So I made a choice. That night, I created an Instagram account—my first step toward letting the world see me. It was a small act, yet to me, it was a declaration: I was ready to give this vacation, and perhaps life itself, a chance.