Feather

1- Feather

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."

— Norman Cousins

"Mom? I have the new pictures we took at the rose garden!... Mom? Are you there?" I entered her room, noticing the faint candle lights in the bathroom. My mother used to take a rose bath every night before going to bed. Stepping inside, I heard the water running.

The tub was starting to overflow.

Mom? You are not supposed to sleep in the bathtub; you said it was dangerous."

She wasn't breathing.

Mom? wake up... Please wake up! My voice started to shake. I was so afraid. My muscles began to tense. My breathing quickened.

Don't leave me, please!" My voice wavered, barely more than a whisper, as I shook her gently.

Her hair, damp and dark, covered her face, hiding the features I knew so well. I brushed it aside with trembling fingers, revealing a face that looked unnervingly peaceful—almost as if she were simply asleep.

But the truth was undeniable. The smell of roses mixed with the sharp scent of blood hung thick in the air, overwhelming me. My stomach churned, and I struggled to keep my breath steady.

"Please wake up!" I pleaded, but the pounding in my ears drowned out my voice. Everything around me spun, and the walls seemed to close in, suffocating me. Through the haze of panic, I caught sight of something in the mirror—a pair of hands, firm yet gentle, pulling me away from the tub.

"Wake up, Isla!" The voice cut through the fog. Phillip, my twin brother, was pulling me back from the brink.

I jolted awake, my heart racing, the nightmare still clinging to me. Phillip was there, his face etched with concern. He brushed a cold hand across my forehead. "You were having that dream again," he murmured. "You're scaring me, Feather."

Feather. My father's nickname for me when I was small and light enough that a gust of wind could carry me away. But that was before. Before my mother's death, before everything changed.

Now, the name felt like a weight, reminding me of everything I'd lost.

I was twelve when I found her. The bathtub was filled with red; her wrists were cut deep. My father's absence after her death was a gaping hole that nothing could fill. He left for South Korea, taking Noah, my older brother, with him. And Phillip and I were left behind, alone in a mansion filled with memories that refused to fade.

Mother had always said, "Love is what we keep locked in our hearts so no one can hurt us." I wondered if she ever truly let herself love or if she had locked it away, just like she taught me to do.

The night air, cool and crisp, drifted through the open window, brushing against my skin.

Therapy didn't seem so bad anymore; the nightmares were relentless, and I was running out of ways to escape them.

I pushed the tangled sheets aside and reached for my phone, its screen glowing in the dim light. Five texts and three missed calls—all from Luke. Luke Jenkins: He was my cord to earth, the one person I could always count on. Tall, athletic, with blue eyes that reflected a perfectly sunny sky. He was perfect, really, but our relationship was strictly platonic.

Lukey: You promised you'd come to the party tonight! Santos is here! What am I supposed to do now?

Santos. The Brazilian boy who had Luke completely smitten, even though they hadn't officially met. Guilt gnawed at me as I realized I'd let him down again. I tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. "Dammit," I muttered, throwing myself back onto the bed.