Chapter 3
I sat at the vanity in the master bedroom, surrounded by the darkness of four in the morning.
"Celeste?" Phoenix's voice came through the door, cautious and probing. "Can we talk?"
I didn't respond, but he pushed the door open anyway. The room was lit only by the small lamp on the vanity, casting a weak glow on my pale face.
"Just listen to me, okay?" Phoenix stopped a few steps away from me. "About Dahlia, you have to understand, she really needs help. She's sick, Celeste. She's mentally unstable—"
"'She's sick, you have to understand.'" I slowly turned to look at him, my lips curving into an icy smile. "Why does that sound so familiar?"
Phoenix frowned. "What do you mean?"
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, that face looked so foreign, so weary. "Twenty years ago, my dad said the exact same words."
Suddenly, the floodgates of memory burst wide open.
Twenty years ago
Seven-year-old me stood in the living room, wearing my prettiest pink dress, clutching a bunch of wildflowers tightly in my hands. Today was Daddy's wedding day. He was marrying Aunt Margaret.
"Celeste, come meet your new sister." Dad Robert led over a girl two years older than me. She had curly golden hair and green eyes, wearing a white lace dress, beautiful like a little angel.
"This is Dahlia." Margaret introduced gently. "She lost her father, so now we're going to be a family and take care of each other."
Dahlia didn't speak, just stared at me with those big green eyes, then suddenly walked over and snatched the wildflowers from my hands.
"Dahlia!" Margaret quickly stepped forward. "You can't do that."
But Dad knelt down and gently stroked Dahlia's hair. "She lost her father. She's fragile. Celeste, you need to be the strong one."
I watched my wildflowers being torn to pieces in Dahlia's hands, an indescribable grievance rising in my heart. "But those were mine..."
"You're old enough now to be understanding." Margaret smiled and patted my head. "You're so mature for your age. You understand, don't you, sweetheart?"
I nodded because that's what the adults said, because it would make them happy. But in my heart I wondered: 'Why do I always have to be the strong one? Why doesn't anyone take care of me?'
Age fifteen
"I don't want to move out of my room!" I stood at my bedroom doorway, watching workers carry away my desk and bookshelf.
"Dahlia needs more space for her art projects." Margaret explained patiently. "You know her creative talent needs nurturing. Besides, you'll be going to college soon, won't you? You don't need such a big room."
"But this is MY room!" My voice trembled. "It's been my room since I was seven!"
Dad walked over with a serious expression. "Celeste, don't be so selfish. Dahlia is going through a depressive episode. Art is her only outlet. Do you want her condition to worsen?"
I watched my carefully decorated room being emptied, all traces of me disappearing. Dahlia stood in the hallway with a triumphant smile on her face.
"Thank you, sister." She said sweetly, but those green eyes sparkled with something I couldn't understand.
In that moment I understood — I would never be first. No matter how hard I tried, how well-behaved I was, how "strong" I became, I would always be second place.
Eight years ago
Nineteen-year-old me sat with Phoenix on a bench in the college campus, his hand holding mine, his eyes full of affection.
"You're perfect, Celeste." He said tenderly. "I want to marry you someday."
My heart nearly leaped from my chest. Phoenix was the kindest, smartest boy I'd ever met. He made me feel cherished, loved. For the first time, someone made me feel like I was the first choice.
"Really?" I asked softly.
"Of course." He kissed my forehead. "I love everything about you — your kindness, your wisdom, your strength. You're the future I want."
But three months later at Thanksgiving, I brought Phoenix home to meet my family.
Dahlia was in a manic phase then. She was radiant, brilliant, like a living work of art. She played piano for us, sang, told stories about her travels in Europe, showed us her paintings.
I saw Phoenix's gaze begin to wander, begin to be drawn to her. That focused attention that once belonged only to me was now directed at Dahlia.
"She's really... stunning." Phoenix said to me that night, his voice carrying a kind of fascination I'd never heard before.
"She has bipolar disorder." I reminded him, unease rising in my heart. "She's in a manic phase right now, so she seems charming. But she also has depressive episodes, very severe ones."
"Every genius has flaws." Phoenix said dismissively. "That's just part of what makes her unique."
Over the next few days, I watched Phoenix and Dahlia grow closer. They talked about art, about life, about deep topics I could never participate in. I stood on the sidelines, feeling like an outsider.
"Dahlia needs someone to stabilize her life." Margaret said to me in the kitchen. "Phoenix seems to calm her down."
"What about me?" My voice was almost pleading. "What about my feelings for Phoenix?"
"You're strong enough to handle this situation." Margaret patted my shoulder. "She isn't. She needs this kind of support more."
"Why is it always me who has to sacrifice?" My tears burst forth. "Why do I always have to give up what I want to her?"
"Because you can handle it." Dad walked into the kitchen, his tone carrying that familiar moral manipulation. "Because you're the strong one. Dahlia needs love to maintain her mental health, but you have the ability to live independently."
Eventually, Phoenix chose Dahlia. Their relationship lasted three years. During those three years, I tried to tell myself this was right, this was for family harmony, for Dahlia's health.
Until Dahlia suddenly got bored with him and discarded him like an old toy. Phoenix came back to me, wounded and regretful, and I — the one always asked to "understand" — opened my arms and accepted him.
