I wasn't always Nimara.
Before I was this princess with sparkling gowns, palace secrets, and royal expectations.
I was Amara,
A girl from a small, ordinary family. Nothing special.
Not rich, not powerful. Just… simple.
We had a home, a cramped apartment that smelled faintly of boiled vegetables and worn-out books. My mother worked as a cleaner, my older brother studied hard, and my father, well... my father was the man who held our world together.
When I was 12, that world shattered.
Dad didn't come home from the construction site one evening. A terrible accident, they said. A piece of scaffolding gave way, and he fell. They found him crushed beneath the rubble.
I remember the silence that filled our small house after that. No laughter, no warmth, only the cold echo of loss.
My mother's face changed that day. She stopped smiling, stopped hoping. The weight of everything the rent, the bills, my brother's school fees, my own clothes and meals, all landed on her fragile shoulders.
We had enough to survive, barely.
Warm clothes came patched and secondhand. Food was simple rice, lentils, bread. Sometimes stale.
But I never noticed how little she ate.
She always made sure my brother and I had enough, even if it meant going hungry herself.
Years passed. I grew up watching Mom's health slip away like the last glow of a dying candle.
By the time I was eighteen, she was a shadow of her former self.
She could barely walk without help.
Eating became a battle she choked on even water.
Her body trembled, her hands lost coordination.
One visit to the doctor led to another, then scans and tests, words I barely understood, like glioma, stage three.
A brain tumor.
Our world tilted again.
The doctors said there was a chance. Surgery might save her.
Maybe.
Mom insisted we keep fighting, keep hoping.
But hope was hard to hold onto when the days felt like an endless gray storm.
My brother and I picked up every odd job we could find. Cleaning, delivering parcels, anything.
We split our days between work, classes, and hospital visits.
I barely had time to breathe.
I still remember the nights when Mom would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, whispering prayers I couldn't hear.
Once, she took my hand and said, "Amara, promise me, no matter what happens, you'll never give up on your dreams."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to be strong.
But sometimes, I was so tired, I couldn't even cry.
The chemotherapy was brutal.
Her beautiful long hair was shaved off.
I watched the fire in her eyes dim with every treatment.
She lost weight, then strength, then the ability to swallow.
One day, she choked on a sip of water and started to seize.
I screamed for help, but it felt like the world had stopped moving.
Bills piled up, and the debts grew.
I tried to be brave.
But I was only a girl.
Then came the hardest blow.
After graduating from high school, my brother left us.
He said he couldn't live in this nightmare anymore.
I never told Mom.
How could I?
She needed him, but I couldn't break her heart.
So I lied.
I told her he was working far away, building a future.
The truth was, he left because he couldn't handle the pain.
He was gone.
That left me alone.
Alone to care for Mom.
Alone to keep going.
I worked three jobs.
Some days, I skipped meals to make sure Mom had enough.
I borrowed money, took out loans with terrifying interest rates.
I even did things I'm not proud of stealing small amounts when no one was looking, scraping together every penny to buy medicine.
But no matter what I did, she kept getting worse.
Doctors said there was nothing more they could do.
The night before my final exams the last step before I became a nurse I made soup for Mom.
I told her about my dreams of working in a hospital, of helping others.
I told her that maybe, just maybe, things would get better.
She looked at me with tired eyes.
And then, she didn't respond.
She was gone.
I cried like I'd never cried before.
Like my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.
People asked about my brother.
I didn't have the strength to explain.
Days passed in a blur.
And then, I started working at the hospital.
It wasn't the place I imagined.
No warm smiles, no comfort.
Just cold faces and cold halls.
No one cared who I was or what I had been through.
No one cared about the girl who lost everything.
My name, Amara, meant sorrow.
It fit me perfectly.
Then, everything fell apart again.
I was blamed for the death of a newborn baby.
The doctor had made the mistake.
But he pushed his blame to me.
But no one believed me.
I was fired.
Loan sharks started calling every day.
Demanding money I didn't have.
But it never felt enough.
I was drowning.
One night, overwhelmed and broken, I went to the bridge Mom and I used to visit.
I sat there, tears streaming down my face.
I cried out to the stars, to the night, to Mom.
"I can't do this alone."
The world felt heavy.
The pain unbearable.
Then, suddenly, a truck came speeding toward me.
That was how I died.
When I opened my eyes again, I was somewhere else.
Inside this body, Nimara's body.
Fragments of memories lingered, the warmth of a loving family, the softness of Mom's touch.
But it was distant. Faded.
Because this life was different.
The owner of this body, Nimara, wasn't me.
She had her own mysteries.
Her own pain.
Her own sister.
And that's what mattered now.
I'm no longer Amara.
I'm Nimara.
And I will find the truth — no matter what it takes.