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Chapter Three

Mirella

I couldn’t stop staring at the crumpled piece of paper on my desk.

I see you.

Two words. That was it. But they played on repeat in my head, louder than my mother’s voice, louder than the sound of my own breathing.

What if it was just a stupid prank? Someone at school messing with me. Maybe the driver. Maybe one of the cooks. Or maybe—

My stomach twisted. What if it wasn’t a prank?

I picked it up again, smoothing the creases with shaking fingers. The handwriting was jagged, hurried. Not familiar. At least, I didn’t think it was.

I traced the letters over and over again with my fingertip, as if the ink might smudge, as if that would somehow prove it wasn’t real. The more I stared, the more I felt the walls closing in. Every shadow in the corner of the room seemed to lean in closer. The curtains shifted slightly with the breeze, but it didn’t feel like the wind—it felt like breath.

Watching me.

Waiting.

“Maybe you wrote it yourself,” I whispered under my breath. “Maybe you’re actually losing it.”

The words tasted bitter.

I shoved the note back into my bag, then dragged it out again five minutes later. It felt heavier every time I touched it, like proof that something was wrong with me.

What if I did put it there? What if I wanted to scare myself? What if I’m finally turning into exactly what she says I am, pathetic, unstable, a disappointment?

I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. My chest ached with that familiar tightness, the same one that had sent me spiraling yesterday.

No. I wasn’t doing that again.

But still, the question gnawed at me. If I didn’t put the letter in my bag… who did?

And why me?

The house was too quiet when I came back downstairs. I thought I’d be alone again until the sound of heels clicking across the marble echoed through the hall.

"Mirella?" A voice called from the hallway.

My sister was back.

Clara swept into the room like she owned the place — which, to be fair, she probably would one day. Perfect hair, perfect outfit, perfect fake smile. Everything I wasn’t.

“You look like hell,” she said the second her eyes landed on me. Not hello. Not how are you? Just that.

I was sure she had gotten the message on what had happened to me in school today.

“Thanks,” I muttered, tugging at my sleeves.

“I heard about what happened at school yesterday.” I knew it. Her tone dripped with amusement. “You fainted? In front of everyone?” She let out a laugh, sharp and cruel. “God, Mirella. Do you ever stop trying to embarrass this family?”

My throat tightened. I’d spent all night trying to convince myself I wasn’t crazy, and now this. I swallowed hard, trying to push the words down, but they clawed their way out anyway.

“I didn’t mean to. I—”

“Of course you didn’t mean to,” Clara cut in, rolling her eyes. “You never mean to do anything, but somehow you always manage to make things about you. Always the victim.”

Her voice was light, but the words hit like knives.

I wanted to tell her about the letter. I wanted to ask her if she’d seen anything, if maybe she knew who put it in my bag. But the look on her face stopped me cold. She wouldn’t believe me. She’d just laugh harder.

“Grow up, Mirella,” she said finally, flipping her hair back over her shoulder as if the conversation bored her. “Stop making things so difficult for everyone. Honestly, you’re exhausting.”

And with that, she left,  heels clicking, perfume trailing after her.

I stood frozen in the middle of the room, her words echoing in my skull. Exhausting. Embarrassing. A joke.

The only ally I thought I had had just turned her back on me.

Her words burrowed deep, the same way they always had. I remembered being twelve, standing on the stairs while she laughed with her friends about how “pathetic” I looked in my recital dress.

That memory snapped against me now like a whip, and for a second, I could almost hear the same laughter echoing down the marble hallway.

The house was silent again after Clara left, but her words stuck to me like tar. Exhausting. Embarrassing.

I dragged myself upstairs, my body heavier than it should have been. I just wanted to crawl into bed and pretend none of this existed. But when I pushed open my bedroom door, my stomach dropped.

My bag wasn’t where I left it.

I remembered tossing it on the chair by my desk before going downstairs. Now it sat neatly on my bed, straps folded, like someone had taken the time to place it there.

My skin prickled.

Slowly, I crossed the room, each step tighter than the last. I didn’t want to look inside. I didn’t want to touch it. But my hands moved anyway, unzipping it like I was in some kind of trance.

There it was.

The letter.

Still folded. Still jagged handwriting. But different somehow. My breath caught when I opened it again.

The words had changed.

This time, there were four.

I see you, Mirella.

My name.

The letters seemed to writhe on the page, as if my name was alive, carved there by a hand that knew me too well.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

Had someone been in here in my room?

Had they been close enough to touch my things, close enough to whisper my name in jagged ink?

I spun toward the door, half-expecting to see a figure still lurking, but there was only the soft creak of the house, settling like a sleeping beast.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. My chest was still tight, breaths shallow, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The sound made me jump.

For a second, I thought it might be whoever wrote the note. That stupid thought made my stomach flip, but no — the screen lit up with a name that made my heart sink even lower.

Mother.

I stared at it until the ringing stopped, praying she’d let it go. No such luck. The phone buzzed again, louder this time, and I finally picked it up.

“Hello?” My voice cracked.

“Don’t sound so pathetic, Mirella,” she snapped immediately, her voice sharp enough to slice through my ear. “Have you been keeping to your diet? Your aunt said she saw you with cake at the gala last week. I told you sugar makes your skin break out. Honestly, do you want people to think you have no self-control?”

I swallowed hard, pressing the phone tighter to my ear, staring at the cursed letter on the floor. “I—I haven’t eaten any cake.”

“You always say that. But then I look at you and it’s obvious.” She sighed dramatically. “Mirella, if you don’t start taking care of yourself, no one will want to be around you. Do you understand? You’ll ruin every chance you have.”

The line buzzed with silence for a beat. My throat burned. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good. Don’t embarrass us. I’ll call later.”

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone onto the be

d, my hands shaking again. One second, it was the letter. The next, it was her voice. Both told me the same thing—

I’d never be enough.