*Trigger warnings* Dissociative Identity disorder, angst, trauma,
Cherish.
The name feels distant, like an echo from another life—a soft whisper against the storm still swirling inside me. It used to mean something. It used to be me. But now, it's just a word, a fragile thread of identity that doesn't quite fit anymore.
The world around me is sharp and muted all at once, the colors too vivid yet too hollow. I feel the weight of my body, the rise and fall of my chest, but it's all mechanical—like a distant observer watching through a glass pane. Every breath feels like a borrowed motion, every blink a practiced routine.
And the energy…
It's not a wild, untamed force anymore. It's not clawing at me, threatening to consume me. No—it's something else now. Coiled and quiet, like a predator resting just beneath my skin, waiting for a signal. It doesn't rage—it listens. It waits.
I push myself upright, my movements fluid but unfamiliar, like I'm learning how to use my body for the first time. The storm within doesn't resist; it moves with me, silent but ever-present.
There's a voice in the back of my mind—faint, pleading—but I can't make out the words. It feels far away. Muffled. Someone calling for her. For Cherish.
But I am not her. Not anymore.
I stand, the world tilting for a brief moment before steadying itself. My fingers curl and uncurl at my sides, testing their strength. The pain in my right hand is distant, almost forgotten, a phantom ache that no longer commands me.
There's a flicker of movement in the corner of the room. A figure—tense, hopeful.
"Cherish?"
The name doesn't belong to me.
I tilt my head at the sound of it, my expression blank. There's no recognition in the word. No anchor.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and unyielding.
Finally, I speak. My voice is calm, steady—a shadow of what it used to be.
"She's gone."
The figure flinches, horror flashing across his face.
And as the storm stirs within me once again, I realize this isn't a beginning or an end.
This is something else entirely.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Imani doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. His eyes—sharp and knowing, always full of fire—are wide with something I don't recognize. Or maybe I do, but it doesn't reach me the way it should.
I see his lips part, trying to form words, but nothing comes out. It's like he doesn't know what to say. Like he's looking at me and seeing something wrong.
I suppose, in his eyes, there is something wrong.
"Don't—" His voice is raw, cracking at the edges. "Don't say that."
I watch him carefully. His stance is rigid, like he's trying not to shatter under the weight of this moment. I think he already has.
"Say what?" I ask. The question is neutral, absent of the warmth or hesitation that once belonged to Cherish.
His hands shake.
"That you're gone," he rasps. "That—" His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. "That she's gone."
I hold his gaze, unblinking. I know I should feel something about this. About him. About the way his voice is shaking, about the way his entire body is holding itself together like if he lets go, he'll break apart.
But I don't.
Because it isn't mine to feel.
Cherish might have known how to comfort him. Cherish might have stepped closer, might have reached for him, might have said something to make it easier.
But she isn't here anymore.
And I... I don't know who I am yet.
So I just stare at him, waiting. Watching. Trying to understand why the sight of his grief feels like an observation instead of a wound.
I don't know how long we stay like this, him unraveling and me standing in the center of it, untouched.
Then, finally, something shifts in him. His expression hardens—not in anger, but in refusal. In defiance.
"You're lying," he says, low and firm.
I arch a brow, tilting my head in something close to curiosity. "Am I?"
He takes a step toward me.
"You are Cherish," he insists, as if saying it will make it true. "You—" His breath stumbles. "You came back."
I watch him. I don't move.
"I came back," I acknowledge. "But not as her."
Imani shakes his head, like he can erase the words from the air. "That's not—" He presses his lips together, jaw clenching so tight I think he might break something. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to decide that."
I blink at him, slow and measured. "I already did."
He exhales sharply, something dangerously close to a broken laugh tearing from his throat. "That's not how this works. That's not how this works."
I don't respond.
Because it is how this works.
He just doesn't want to believe it.
For a long moment, we just stand there—him looking at me like he can will me back into the girl he remembers, and me standing perfectly still, unshaken.
Then, softly, carefully, he asks, "Who are you?"
I should have an answer.
I don't.
Not yet.
But I know one thing for certain.
I step forward, just enough for the storm inside me to stir. His eyes flicker at the movement, his breath hitching as he feels it too—the energy curling at my fingertips, shifting under my skin.
A power that no longer fights me. A power that no longer owns me.
"I don't know," I tell him honestly.
Imani is desperate now. I can see it in the way his hands shake, in the way his breath comes too fast, too shallow. He's scrambling, searching for a way to reach me, to tether me back to something I no longer feel.
Then, he speaks again.
"Miras."
The name is a bullet in the silence between us. Sharp. Precise. Fired straight at whatever part of me he still believes is Cherish.
He watches me closely, waiting for the hit, for the wound, for some kind of reaction.
I feel nothing.
Nothing stirs inside me. Nothing pulls or aches or shifts. The name is just that—a name. Letters strung together in a sound that means nothing to me.
I blink, unimpressed. "And?"
Something cracks behind Imani's eyes.
"He loves you," he insists, his voice rough with emotion. "He fought for you. He—he never stopped." His hands curl into fists. "You love him."
I tilt my head. "Do I?"
He flinches like I've struck him.
"Yes," he grits out. "You do."
I stare at him for a long moment. I could lie. I could pretend. I could give him what he wants to hear, offer him the illusion that the girl he's fighting for still exists.
But she doesn't.
So I don't.
"I believe that she did." My voice is even, calm. "But I am not her."
Imani shakes his head violently, stepping forward like he could grab me and shake Cherish back into existence. "You don't mean that," he says, voice unraveling. "You can't mean that."
I meet his gaze without hesitation. "I do."
His breath shudders. His entire body is taut, straining against this truth he refuses to accept. I almost expect him to reach for me, to grip my arms and demand that I feel something.
But he doesn't.
Because deep down, I think he already knows the truth.
I am standing here, looking at him, but I am not the person he's trying to save.
And no matter how many names he throws at me, no matter how many memories he digs up, nothing will change that.
Miras. Imani. My father. My past.
They belong to someone else.
Imani's face twists, pain and anger and disbelief warring in his expression. His hands are shaking, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
I wonder if he's about to break.
But then, something shifts in his eyes.
A final, desperate attempt. A raw, open plea.
"Would she want this?" he asks, voice shaking. "Would Cherish want to come back?"
I pause. The storm inside me hums in quiet amusement.
I take a slow step forward, until I'm close enough to see every fracture in his expression.
And then, softly, I tell him the only truth that matters.
"She isn't here to decide."
Their voices drift through the walls, hushed but urgent, carrying the weight of a conversation not meant for me. I could ignore it. I should ignore it. But the storm inside me is restless, curious—not about what they're saying, but about why they still think it matters.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as I let their words spill into the empty space between us.
"She's not gone," Imani says, his voice raw, sharp with conviction. "Not completely."
A scoff. Nayley. "You saw her, Imani. That girl isn't Cherish."
"She is," he snaps back. "She's just—" A pause, a breath. "Something happened when the power took over. It rewired her, buried her under whatever this is. But she's still in there. I know she is."
"She told you she isn't," Dewey murmurs. His voice is careful, measured. "She doesn't care about Miras, she doesn't care about you. You saw the way she looked at you. Like a stranger."
Imani's breathing is unsteady. "She is a stranger." The words sound like they cost him something to say. "But that doesn't mean she has to stay that way."
A heavy silence follows. I can picture the way they're looking at him—the pity, the doubt, the quiet grief.
"She's not fighting to come back," Nayley says, quieter now. "She's not lost, Imani. She chose this."
The words settle into the air like a truth no one wants to hold.
But I do.
Because she's right.
I did choose this.
Or maybe the storm chose me.
Either way, it doesn't matter.
None of this does.
"Imani, I can't keep him away forever." Nayley's voice is firm, but there's an edge to it, a strain she's trying to mask. "He's barely holding on as it is."
A sharp exhale. "I know that." Imani's voice is quieter, but no less tense. "You think I don't know that?"
"I don't think you understand just how bad it is," Nayley presses. "You're here, watching her—" I can hear the way she refuses to say my name, the way it catches in her throat. "But Miras? He's out there losing his mind over this."
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Then, Imani, quieter: "He shouldn't come."
"I don't think he can stop himself," Nayley shoots back. "And frankly? I don't know how much longer I can stop him either."
A pause. A breath.
"You didn't see his face, Imani," she says, and this time, there's something raw in her voice. "When I told him what happened. When I told him what she said."
Another silence.
I shift slightly where I stand, but my heart doesn't race. My hands don't tremble. This used to be the kind of moment that would make me feel something.
Now, it just is.
I don't have to ask what she told him. I already know.
That I don't care.
That he doesn't matter.
That Cherish—his Cherish—is gone.
And yet, he's still trying.
Still fighting.
Still breaking himself apart over someone who doesn't exist anymore.
I should feel something about that. Maybe I do, somewhere deep, deep down. But if it's there, it's buried under the storm, beneath the quiet hum of something colder, something new.
I take one last glance toward the room, toward the people still fighting for a past I have no intention of returning to.
I turn away.
Let Miras come.
It won't change a thing.
I feel him before I see him.
The weight of his presence slams into the air, thick with something I can't quite name—not just anger, not just grief. Something deeper. Something that crackles against my skin like static, like the moment before a storm breaks.
He doesn't knock.
He doesn't hesitate.
The doors slam open, and then he's here.
And I?
I don't move.
I watch as he storms into the room, chest heaving, eyes burning with something raw, something aching. His entire body is taut, coiled, like he's barely holding himself together.
Like he's been breaking apart since the moment he heard I was gone.
I don't look away.
Not when his gaze locks onto mine, not when his breath stumbles, not when I see the exact second the last of his restraint shatters.
"You." The word is torn from him, ragged and disbelieving.
I arch a brow. "Me."
His fists clench. His shoulders shake.
For a long moment, he just stares, eyes searching my face like he's trying to find something—someone—who isn't there anymore.
"You're joking." His voice is hoarse, sharp-edged. "Tell me you're joking."
I blink at him, slow, unaffected.
"About what?"
His nostrils flare. "About this," he snarls, motioning to me, to the way I stand there, unmoved, untouched. "About whatever this is."
I tilt my head. "You should be more specific."
His breath trembles.
"You don't mean it," he says, like he's forcing the words into existence, like saying them will make them true. "You don't mean any of it. You're just—" His voice wavers. "You're just confused."
I exhale slowly, watching him carefully.
"I am not confused."
He flinches.
For the briefest moment, something in him cracks.
Then, his entire face hardens.
"Bullshit."
The curse lands like a blade between us, sharp and unforgiving.
"That's bullshit," he spits. "You think you can just stand there and tell me you don't care? That you don't feel anything? That you—" He swallows, voice shaking. "That you don't love me?"
I don't hesitate.
"I don't."
The silence that follows is violent.
Miras stares at me, eyes wide, disbelieving, breaking.
And still, I don't feel anything.
I watch as his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me, like he wants to shake me, force me to wake up from whatever nightmare he thinks this is.
But I'm not dreaming.
And I am not going to wake up.
Slowly, I step forward, closing the space between us.
The storm inside me stirs.
I stop just inches away, close enough to see every fracture in his expression, close enough to feel the way his breath stutters against my skin.
Then, softly—calmly—I say,
"You can let me go now."
His whole body goes still.
The air between us is suffocating, trembling, breaking.
I wait.
Wait for him to fight, to argue, to plead.
But he doesn't.
He just looks at me.
Miras doesn't move.
He doesn't speak.
He just stares at me, like if he looks long enough, hard enough, he'll find something, someone, beneath my skin.
But there's nothing left to find.
I watch as the fight drains out of him, not all at once, but in slow, shuddering fractures. His hands, still clenched into fists. His jaw, locked so tight I can hear the grind of his teeth.
And then—
"Miras."
Imani's voice cuts through the air, sharp and urgent.
Miras doesn't look away from me.
Imani steps closer, posture tense, cautious, like he's approaching an unstable fault line. "Come on," he says, softer now, reaching for him. "You need to go."
Miras' breath shudders, but he doesn't move.
I see the exact second something in him snaps.
His head turns, slow and lethal, toward Imani. His expression shifts, something dark and dangerous settling into the lines of his face.
"You need to go," he growls.
Imani's jaw tightens. "Miras—"
"No."
Imani exhales sharply, shoulders going rigid. "She's gone, Miras."
Miras lunges.
The room erupts into chaos.
Imani meets him head-on, catching his arm before the first punch can land, but Miras is fast—faster than Imani expects, faster than I think any of them expected. He twists free, shoving Imani back with enough force to make him stumble.
"Don't say that," Miras snarls. His breathing is ragged, his entire body trembling with barely contained fury. "Don't you dare—"
"She is!" Imani shouts, cutting him off. "You're killing yourself over someone who isn't here anymore—"
"I don't care!"
Miras swings.
Imani ducks at the last second, the force of the punch grazing past his jaw. He barely has time to counter before Miras is coming at him again, a relentless force of rage and heartbreak.
I don't move.
I don't interfere.
The storm inside me hums in amusement as I watch them tear each other apart.
Imani blocks the next hit, stepping in to grapple Miras by the arms. "You think this is going to change anything?" he grits out, voice strained. "You think if you fight hard enough, she's just going to come back?"
Miras roars, shoving him off, eyes burning.
"I'll never stop," he snarls. "Not for you. Not for her—" His gaze snaps back to me, something desperate bleeding into his rage. "You hear me?" His voice shakes, his entire body shaking. "I will never stop fighting for you."
I tilt my head, considering him.
Then, I smile.
A soft, cold thing.
"You already lost."
Miras breaks.
It's not loud.
It's not dramatic.
It's a quiet, shattering thing—like the moment before the sky collapses.
His breath stumbles. His hands fall to his sides. The fury flickers, wavers, cracks.
Imani sees it. Seizes it.
He moves fast, stepping in before Miras can lunge again, before he can do something even he might regret.
"Enough," Imani mutters, grabbing his arm, gripping hard.
Miras doesn't resist.
He just stands there, breathing too hard, eyes still locked onto me, onto the empty space where his Cherish used to be.
Imani pulls.
Miras doesn't fight him.
He just lets himself be dragged away, looking at me like he's memorizing every last piece of what he's lost.
It's another few hours before anyone dares to enter to my room again—the place they're practically holding me captive.
The weight of something inevitable presses down on the space around me, thick and heavy, like a storm rolling in. Unlike Miras, he doesn't slam open the doors. He doesn't burst into the room, rage and heartbreak spilling out in waves.
No.
He moves like a shadow.
Controlled. Cold. Calculated.
The door creaks open. A slow, deliberate sound.
And then—
"Cherish."
I glance up.
He stands in the doorway, tall and unmoving. His presence fills the room with something different from Miras, something deeper. Not grief. Not rage.
Expectation.
A demand.
I meet his gaze, and for the first time since waking up like this, I wonder if I should feel something.
But I don't.
His eyes scan me, sharp and searching, taking in every inch of what I've become. His expression gives nothing away, but I know what he's looking for.
The daughter he lost.
The girl who used to tremble beneath the weight of his words.
The girl who fought to prove herself to him, to earn something from him—approval, love, anything.
He won't find her.
"She's gone," I tell him, voice quiet but certain.
His expression doesn't change.
Then, after a long, weighted pause, he exhales.
"No, she isn't."
I blink.
He steps forward, his movements measured, unrushed. "I know my daughter," he continues, voice smooth, steady. "I know what's inside of her." His eyes never leave mine, locked in something unspoken, something unreadable. "And I know what you are."
I tilt my head, intrigued. "And what am I?"
His lips curve slightly, almost like he's amused. "You don't know?"
I say nothing.
He steps closer, until there's barely any space between us, and I let him.
I let him look at me, let him study me, let him see exactly what I am now.
His eyes narrow, but not in shock. Not in anger.
In understanding.
"You're more," he murmurs, like it's obvious. Like it was inevitable. "More than before. More than they can comprehend." His voice is low, thoughtful. "You think they're afraid of what you've lost." A pause. "But what terrifies them most?" He leans in, gaze unwavering. "Is what you've gained."
Something in my chest hums, a dark amusement curling at the edges of my mind.
He sees it.
He sees me.