Since we were kids, everything was shared between Candice and me. Clothes, toys, birthday parties—even secrets. At first, I liked it. There was comfort in knowing someone understood me so completely, someone whose face mirrored mine in every photograph. People said it was special, being a twin. They said we were lucky.
But luck has a way of turning sour.
It started small: Candice wanting the doll I’d picked out, or whispering to Mom that I’d broken a vase when it was really her. She was clever that way, always ready with a story, and even Mom would get us confused sometimes. Candice would bat her lashes and blame me for things I hadn’t done, and I’d stand there, too stunned to argue, taking the fall.
As we grew older, it wasn’t just toys or trouble. It was people. Friends I’d made became her friends. Boys I’d liked started liking her.
She’d laugh about it, say it was just a twin thing, but I knew better. She liked having what I wanted. She liked winning.
Then came Harper.
He was different, or so I thought. The first time he saw us together, he smiled at me—me—and I felt something spark. I thought he’d be the one person who could tell us apart, who’d see me, not just the twin. I was naïve. I wanted to believe someone could love me for who I was, not just because I looked like Candice.
But even Harper couldn’t tell the difference. At first, I made excuses for him. At first, I forgave. I was a fool. I let it go, let Candice flirt and Harper stumble through apologies, let Mom scold me for things Candice had done.
I thought love meant patience, meant forgiving, meant letting myself be invisible if it made things easier.
Now I know better.
It wasn’t just confusion. It was an affair. And I was done pretending.
I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of my bedroom door creaking open.
Harper slipped inside, eyes red and pleading, the same way he always looked when he was caught. He dropped to his knees beside my bed, reaching for my hand, tears threatening to spill.
“Camille, please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I know I messed up, but I love you. I swear. I’ll never let it happen again. Just… just forgive me. Please.”
Candice was the same. She’d cry, beg, wrap her arms around me, promising she’d never do it again. And every time, I’d forgive her. Every time, I’d let it go.
I looked at Harper, the ache in my chest sharp and familiar. I was tired—so tired—of fighting. Tired of being the reasonable one, the forgiving one, the twin who always bent but never broke.
He took my silence as hope. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box again, flipping it open to reveal a ring. “Let’s get married, okay? We can start over. I’ll prove I love you. Please, Camille.”
I stared at him, at the ring, at the desperation in his eyes. I wanted to scream, to run, to say no. But instead, I nodded. I was just so tired.
“Okay,” I whispered.
His face lit up, relief flooding his features. He hugged me, promising a thousand things I knew he’d never keep.
The next day, I woke up numb. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tracing the freckles on my cheeks. They were supposed to be the only thing that set me apart from Candice, but even those felt like a curse now. I grabbed my bag and walked to the salon, the decision heavy in my chest.
I asked for a new haircut, new color, and—most importantly—freckle removal. The technician hesitated, but I insisted. I wanted to be someone else. I wanted to be anyone but the twin who kept getting mistaken.
When I got home, Harper was waiting in the living room. He stared at me, wide-eyed, taking in the new hair, the smooth cheeks, the unfamiliar confidence.
“If you ever mistake me for Candice again,” I said quietly, “then it means you don’t love me. Not really.”
He shook his head, rushing to reassure me. “Of course not, Camille. I love you. Only you. Let’s go on a date, okay? I’ll arrange everything. Just get ready. Tonight will be special.”
I nodded, forcing a smile. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust.
I went upstairs, picking out a dress, brushing my new hair. I tried to focus on the future, on the promise of something better. But as I moved around my room, I heard voices drifting up the stairs—Candice and Harper, talking in the hallway.
I froze, listening.
“I’m pregnant,” Candice whispered, her voice trembling. “So why would you marry her? Why not break up with Camille?”
There was a long pause. Harper’s voice was low, frustrated. “You know I can’t just break up with her. Everyone knows we’re the couple, and my mother loves her. She wants Camille to be my wife—not you. So come on, we can just keep this hidden for a while.”
Candice’s voice was sharper, more desperate. “Or we can just kill her before your wedding day so I can pretend to be her?”
