I didn't die.
Again.
That was something.
This time, though, I didn't wake up in a baby's body. I woke up in my own—a little bruised, a little hollowed out, but still mine.
And for the first time in both my lives, I didn't want revenge.
I didn't want to prove anything. I didn't want to burn it all down.
I just wanted peace.
My days were slow.
I wasn't allowed to do much—doctor's orders. Even climbing stairs came with supervision. My lungs were still weak from pneumonia, and I needed physical therapy just to walk without getting dizzy.
I slept too much. Ate too little.
Lily hovered like a well-dressed guardian angel, always checking in with soft hands and big, guilty eyes.
"You don't need to babysit me," I told her one morning.
She tucked my hair behind my ear and whispered,
"Maybe I just want to stay close."
And I didn't say it out loud, but part of me wanted her to go.
Not because I hated her. But because everything still reminded me of what I'd lost.
I needed space. Silence. A clean page.
But my family?
They don't do clean pages.
Mom had turned our home into a health retreat.
Organic meals. Herbal teas. Soothing classical music. Weighted blankets.
Dad tried to micromanage my recovery like it was a hostile takeover.
"She needs a humidifier in every room. Oxygen saturation must stay above 96. Do we have emergency IV kits here?"
Caelum tried to be comforting, which mostly meant scaring off anyone who looked at me sideways.
"If anyone even breathes near her wrong, I will personally delete their bloodline."
Lily stayed close, offering tissues and cookies and quietly not mentioning the fact that we don't talk about Jacob.
And me?
I asked for therapy.
Real therapy. Not the "read a romance novel and take a bubble bath" version.
"I need to talk to someone," I told my mom.
"Of course," she said without hesitation. "Whoever you want. As long as they're licensed and terrifying."
Her name was Dr. Yara Hale.
She was older, sharp-eyed, and wore perfectly tailored blazers with steel-colored hair pulled into a severe bun. Think: Professor McGonagall with a psychology degree.
She didn't do baby talk. Didn't blink when I said things like:
"My first boyfriend used me to get access to my sister, and I might be emotionally stunted from being raised by rich drama magnets."
Or:
"I faked amnesia to make him go away. I don't regret it."
She just nodded and said:
"Smart tactic. But we're still going to unpack why you needed it."
She didn't pity me. She challenged me.
"You don't have to be a performance for everyone else's chaos, Selene."
"You don't have to be the clever one to be worth protecting."
"You're allowed to break without making it a punchline."
It was brutal.
And it was exactly what I needed.
After three weeks, I started walking on my own again.
I read books that weren't for school. I ate slowly. I smiled—genuinely—for the first time in what felt like forever.
I even watched horror movies alone and didn't cry once.
Not because they weren't scary.
But because I'd already survived my worst nightmare.
Betrayal.
Loss.
And still waking up.
Lily eventually went back to school—with my blessing.
"Go," I told her. "Be brilliant. Be golden. I'll be fine."
She hugged me tighter than usual.
"I'll be back for the weekend."
I didn't say it, but part of me hoped she'd stay gone longer.
Because healing is loud. And messy. And I needed time to scream into pillows and sob on my therapist's couch without someone looking at me like I was fragile glass.
And me ?
I stayed.
Home.
Quiet.
Rewriting myself one messy journal page at a time.
I started working again—slowly. Programming. Analysis. Designing systems for risk management just like Aurora once did. Like me.
Maybe that's who I am.
Not just Selene, the sarcastic side character.
Not the reincarnated burnout.
Not the devil twin to her angel sister.
But a woman rebuilding.
And for once, not chasing a love story.
Just... chasing herself.