Love after Death (S1) [Completed]

Chapter 32: The Hollow Reflection

Miguel's POV

Home looked the same as always. The lights were on in the living room when I walked in, warm and yellow, casting soft shadows against the walls. The TV murmured in the background-some news channel Dad always half-watched while pretending not to.

Everything was normal. Too normal. The kind of normal that made the weight in my chest feel heavier because nothing on the outside matched what was happening inside me.

"Hey," Dad said without looking up from the couch. "You're back early."

"Yeah," I replied automatically, slipping off my shoes and lining them up where they always went. My hands moved on their own, muscle memory taking over. "Didn't feel like staying out."

Mom, even though my brain still stumbled over that sometimes-poked her head out from the kitchen. She had an apron on, flour dusted across her hands. She smiled, but her eyes lingered on me a second longer than usual.

"Dinner will be ready soon," she said gently. "You okay, sweetheart?"

I nodded. Too fast. "I'm fine."

She didn't argue, but I saw the way her brows pulled together slightly before she turned back to the stove.

Sam was sprawled on the floor with her laptop, earbuds dangling uselessly around her neck. She glanced up when I passed by.

"You look like hell," she said casually.

"Nice to see you too," I muttered.

She smirked but studied me anyway, eyes sharp in that way only siblings-or almost siblings-could manage. "Did you forget to sleep again?"

"Something like that."

I headed upstairs before anyone could say anything else. My room felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in as soon as I shut the door. I dropped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks I'd memorized years ago.

Normal house. Normal family. Normal life.

So why did it feel like I was pretending?

I could still feel it-that quiet pressure behind my eyes, that strange ache in my chest that didn't belong to this body, this name, this life. I pressed a hand over my heart, as if I could physically hold everything in place.

Who am I?

The question followed me everywhere now, whispering in the silence.

The house was moving around me, quietly, like it had always known I'd be here but was unsure of what I'd do next. The maids moved through the hallways, silently straightening cushions, polishing surfaces, and leaving as quickly as they had appeared. The air smelled faintly of lemon and lavender, clean but sterile, a constant reminder that everything here was maintained, controlled, predictable.

I wandered back to the window and pressed my forehead against the glass. Outside, the garden glimmered in the soft evening light, perfectly maintained. Inside, my reflection looked hollow. My eyes stared back at me, unsure, distant. A body that felt mine, but not fully. A life I lived, but that didn't feel like it belonged to me entirely.

Hours passed quietly. I didn't go downstairs. I didn't talk. I just moved through my room and the hallways, staring at shadows, listening to the house breathe. Every creak, every click of the air vents, every faint footstep below me made me more aware of the distance growing between myself and the people I called family.