Hi, guys! So, for those of you who don't know, Double or Nothing (my previous story) has been deleted. It just wasn't working, so rather than upload more or try to fix it, I decided to try again with an entirely new story. It's still about twins (that's an idea I really want to explore), but it's not related to that story in any shape or from.

I'm also trying a SLIGHTLY new genre here. It's still predominantly teen fiction (and will include romance!) but this time I'm including a paranormal touch. Don't worry, though: for the most part, the genre will remain teen fiction romance, just with a slightly new spin.

Anyway, enough of me rambling. I'll let you get on and read the first chapter.

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                  I was used to living in a mirror.

                  Not literally, of course: I hadn’t been trapped in some kind of parallel universe, accessible only through mirrors on each side. That would’ve made the whole thing infinitely more interesting, like the start of a bestselling fantasy novel, or a TV show that’d run at least five seasons. That kind of thing would have potential.

                  Of all the ways I could think of to describe my life at that particular point, having potential certainly wouldn’t have been one of them.

                  For anybody who had stood in the doorway to my bedroom more than five years ago, it may have looked like somebody had placed a supersized mirror right down the centre of it. Everything was identical: the beds on opposite sides had matching covers; the dressers and wardrobes had been bought in a set of two; the collection of items on the bedside tables chosen for correspondence. The illusion was the result of my twin sister, Reese, and her bright ideas; at that age, we were still experiencing twin novelty, wanting to establish ourselves as two separate people as little as we could. An identical room had seemed a good place to start, leaving everything else to follow.

                  Over the years, however, the effect wore off. Through our teenage years, we branched out into different interests, which was soon reflected in the interior design. Reese’s wall became covered in posters of the actors and singers she adored, all Photoshopped into shiny glamour, while mine stayed mostly bare. A stockpile of make-up littered the top of her dresser, but my – much smaller – collection was tidied away inside a drawer. Her side was more often than not a minefield of abandoned shoes, heels and trainers and boots all scattered across the carpet, but I only owned half the amount. Day by day, the mirror effect grew much less noticeable, until it was beginning to resemble just the space of two siblings, with none of the similarity of identical twins.

                  And when we were eighteen, two months after our birthday, it disappeared completely. All at once.

                  After it happened, I spent most of my time in the room, often lying flat on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as if this was an occupation in itself. My half looked the same as ever: an unassuming tidiness, spread evenly across the space. The key difference, however, came when I turned my head to the side, sparing a glance for Reese’s section.

                  Her bed was empty, the covers pulled tight in a way she never would’ve done, not slept in for weeks. The top of the dresser had been cleared, and so had the floor. None of her shoes, or her other scattered belongings, were in sight.

                  But, then again, neither was she.

                  There had been a lot of things to know about Reese Washington: more than any person surely should’ve been able to carry with them. I’d often thought that was why she’d needed a twin in the first place, as if that amount of personality couldn’t be contained in a single person. As her identical, sharing everything right down to our DNA, I’d assumed I’d known all there was. However, as it turned out, none of that mattered – not when I didn’t know the biggest thing of all.

                  The heart defect had gone undetected for a whole eighteen years. There were no symptoms: nothing to suggest anything was wrong at all. But on the thirtieth of November, in the early hours of the morning, it chose to make itself known, and she collapsed.

                  Sudden cardiac death was the doctor’s term for it, as much as I hated the phrase. It sounded so cold, so clinical, as if it was possible to stick a label over a tragedy the magnitude of Reese’s death. The fact that it even had a name disgusted me. I couldn’t bear to think this was something that happened more than once, that people had gone through it before her, and more would inevitably follow. It reminded me sickeningly of a conveyor belt, all of them moving along, completely unaware of where they were heading.

                  Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy: that’s what had gone down on her medical notes. An unnecessarily long string of letters that were supposed to describe what had happened. It was also the gateway for my own medical investigation; almost straightaway, I was forced into hospital, to be prodded at and interrogated to see how much of a chance I had of following Reese’s lead. And yet, for some reason, nothing came of it. I wasn’t sure whether it made me a freak of nature, considering I was carrying my twin’s exact genetic make-up, but I showed no sign of the same problem. I was fine.

                  If only that felt like a comfort.

                  A month had passed since then: one I’d spent almost entirely cooped up in the mirror room, staring across at Reese’s empty bed, working on a continuous cycle of crying my eyes out and feeling nothing at all. People deal with grief in different ways, people kept telling me. It was usually my mother. It’s okay to take some time for yourself.

                  Even I could tell I was nearing the end of that luxury, though. I may have been granted time off from school, and every other commitment I’d had before Reese’s death, but it wasn’t an arrangement that could stand forever. Mum was already itching to get me up and about, to throw me back into routine and normality like that was the way to fix everything. She didn’t like the way I was spending so much time cooped up alone, not speaking to anyone, hardly broaching the outside world at all. But what else was I supposed to do? Leave the house, plaster a smile on my face, pretend I wasn’t falling apart at the seams? It hardly seemed like a better alternative.

                  I’d known it was coming, of course. The talk had to happen eventually, because there was no way Mum was going to let me stay away from school forever. But that didn’t mean it didn’t come as a surprise when I heard her voice from the doorway of the room, tentatively edging its way across the space.

                  “Callie?”

                  The single word had me drawing breath and holding it, like if I stayed still enough I ran the possibility of turning invisible. And yet when several seconds passed, Mum’s presence remaining firmly at the door, I forced myself to sit up in bed. “Yes?”

                  “Will you come downstairs for a little bit?” she asked. Now the right way up, I caught sight of her properly; her bottle-blonde curls were pulled back into a ponytail, and she’d put on a layer of concealer to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes. “I think we should talk.”

                  I knew what it meant, of course: what it would come to. However the talk went, the outcome was always going to be the same. But the only way to keep on my mother’s good side was to agree.

                  Forcing myself to look at her, our eyes met somewhat nervously across the room. “Okay.”

                  My slippers padded on the carpeted steps as I followed her down the stairs; staying home all day, after all, didn’t warrant the need to get dressed properly. In the kitchen, the kettle was boiling, emitting wisps of steam from its spot on the worktop, while the dining table somehow managed to look ominous. This was probably down to the way she’d set up the chairs; my stepdad, Brian, was seated next to a free space, directly opposite the place intended for me. Mum headed over to the kettle, using it as delay to the conversation, while I crossed the room and sunk down into the chair.

                  She didn’t ask if I wanted tea; I got it anyway. At least it gave me something to focus on as Mum settled into the seat next to Brian, both of them now looking pointedly in my direction.

                  “So,” she began, after several seconds’ silence.

                  I cleared my throat, glancing down at my mug in an attempt to avoid their stares. “So.”

                  This, it seemed, was the end of the small talk. “I think it’s time to go back to school, Callie,” she said, her voice entirely level. I almost wondered if she’d been practicing.

                  In hindsight, it probably would’ve been wise for me to practice some kind of response. As much as school had been on my brain for the last couple of weeks, it had never really occurred for me to prepare an excuse should Mum try to force me back early. Grief, I’d quickly learned, was guaranteed to get you out of awkward questions; at Reese’s funeral, people had hardly dared to ask me anything at all, let alone start pressing queries about my future plans. I’d quickly become dependent on it – maybe a little too dependent. The funeral had been three weeks ago, and I should’ve known I couldn’t avoid it all forever.

                  It was just difficult to think of anything when it was tainted by the knowledge that I’d be going it alone. No Reese. Just Callie. Half of what had always been.

                  School, of course, was the biggest hurdle. I hadn’t escaped completely; teachers were emailing me catch-up work on a daily basis, and I’d recently started making the effort to stumble robotically through it, if only to keep Mum happy. The thought of walking through the doors, however, was in a whole other league.

                  “We feel it’d be a good step for you to take,” Mum continued, evidently realising she wasn’t about to get a response out of me. “You’ve been keeping up with the work, but it’ll be the best thing for your education if you can get back into the classroom. Your A-levels are important.”

                  I didn’t know what to say. I’d known it was coming, of course, but that didn’t mean it lessened the impact when it hit me straight in the face.

                  “Well, what do you think?” Mum asked tentatively, tightening her hands around the mug. “Do you think that’s something you can handle?”

                  They were both looking at me expectantly; an answer was mandatory. Swallowing over the almost permanent lump in my throat, I forced myself to find a voice. “I don’t want to go back to school,” I told them truthfully, and before the words were even out of my mouth, I could see Mum’s expression drooping.

                  “What do you mean?” Brian chipped in. My gaze flickered in his direction; his eyes were warier than Mum’s, swimming amongst uncertainty, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the kitchen light reflected on his balding head. “Is it too soon for you, or do you just not—”

                  “I don’t want to go back to school.”

                  Of course I didn’t. With that, there was no question. It wasn’t the work that filled me with dread; in fact, A-levels were probably one of the only things that could take my mind off my sister. But with attending school came everything else: not being able to walk down a corridor without turning a dozen heads, facing horrified expressions around every corner, pity that obscured any chance of friendship. Being the sister of the dead girl was never going to be easy, not for anyone. Being a spitting image of the dead girl, however, was near enough impossible.

                  “You can’t stay at home forever, Callie,” Mum went on, looking a little impatient. I wondered if this was how she’d expected the conversation to go. “This is the most important year of school for you. I know it’ll be difficult at first, to go back after such a long time away, but I really think it’ll be a step back into normality. And that’s exactly what you need right now.”

                  “It’s just the first hurdle,” Brian said. “Once you get over that, it’ll be okay.”

                  “People will stare at me.”

                  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Mum countered, in a falsely optimistic tone. One that could only be voiced by someone who didn’t have to go through it. “They hardly have a reason to stare.”

                  “I’m a mirror image of the dead girl, Mum!” I shot back, a little too forcefully. “What do you think’s going to happen? Of course they’re going to bloody stare!”

                  “They know you exist, Callie. You can’t stay hidden away forever in that room. I know you’re feeling better, and now it’s time to start thinking about your A-levels again. If you don’t pick yourself up, it’ll be too late, and it’ll affect you for the rest of your life.”

                  The words sounded ridiculous in every sense, little droplets of fiction pouring right out of her, and I wondered if she believed them herself. She spoke as if I hadn’t already been permanently affected, as if the whole thing was merely me clamouring for attention. In what world did losing your twin sister not affect you for the rest of your life?

                  “What was the point of this conversation?” I asked.

                  Mum, having not expected anything calm in response, looked slightly taken aback. “What?”

                  “What was the point of all this?” I repeated. “You’ve already made the decision for me, haven’t you? I’m going back to school. Why did you even bother pretending like I had a choice?”

                  “You do have a choice, Callie.” I watched as she glanced over at Brian for support, but he didn’t seem to be offering much by way of backup, looking like he’d rather shrink in the face of any confrontation. They weren’t, after all, used to it from me; it had only ever been Reese that had kicked up trouble, unearthing disputes about curfews and tattoos. I’d always faded into the background, silently taking my sister’s side, but never wanting to venture too far into involvement.

                  Now, however, I wasn’t sure what had gotten into me. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”

                  “We’re not trying to force you into something you’re not comfortable with,” Mum told me, even though that was pretty much exactly what she was doing. “We’ll work with the school to make it as smooth as possible for you. I’m sure we can arrange for you to gradually get back into lessons – maybe half days at a time? And I’ve already spoken to the counsellor about in-school sessions—”

                  “I don’t want to see the counsellor.”

                  “Well, then, you don’t have to. Anything else is on your terms, Callie – I just want to make sure you’re getting back into normality.”

                  I didn’t say anything; words had failed me, getting caught up in my throat, the right ones indistinguishable from all the others. It felt as if Mum was speaking a foreign language, one I only had faint knowledge of; I could muddle my way through the basic words, but the understanding was lost. How could normality even exist when Reese was no longer here? How could it stretch anywhere past the moment she’d lost her grip on this world, and I’d simultaneously lost mine too?

                  “What do you say?” she asked, in what was meant to be a gentle voice. “Is that something you think you can manage?”

                  Reluctant to meet her gaze, I forced my eyes to remain focused on the mug in my hands, watching the last wisps of steam curl upward from the tea. That was certainly less threatening than anything near my mother’s face. The permanent lump had wedged itself in my throat again, blocking all hope of speech, and I couldn’t help thinking about how much I wished Reese was here. She’d always been in charge of the talking, of weaving us out of situations with rapid-fire responses I’d never dream of. It hadn’t ever mattered that I’d been a definitive introvert: not when I came with the world’s most outgoing counterpart.

                  But that had all changed. Reese had left me here, half of something that had only ever worked as a double, with no option but to fend for myself. Whether I liked it or not, it was now my job to start finding the words.

                  “You’re not the only one finding this difficult, you know.” I hadn’t expected Mum to say anything; without thinking, I looked up. “It wasn’t just you that lost Reese. We all did.”

                  But you don’t look like her, I wanted to say. You don’t have to see her every time you look in the mirror.

                  Once again, though, the words had got lost somewhere in my throat. The alternatives I had to offer hardly had the same impact. “I know.”

                  “Just give school a chance,” she said. “It might just be exactly what you need.”

                  I didn’t want to further the conversation; there was evidently nothing to come of arguing, even if I could string together a sentence that didn’t make me feel ready to choke. So instead I shrugged, as noncommittally as possible, before rising from my chair. The legs scraped uncomfortably across the laminate, the unpleasant screeching sound making us all wince, but I still headed for the stairs regardless.

                  Mum and Brian didn’t even wait for the sound of my bedroom door before they started talking about me; I could hear their hushed tones as I climbed the staircase. I could’ve lingered, headed back to down in an attempt to catch what exactly they were saying, but I had no desire to. The truth wasn’t anything new to me; I knew I was being unreasonable, that spending entire days lying flat out in my bedroom wasn’t going to help me get back into normal life, and yet somehow I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

                  In the mirror bedroom, I could almost kid myself into thinking Reese was there with me. And the truth was, I felt afraid to venture too far from that sense of comfort.

                  Once inside, with the door shut safely behind me, I allowed myself to take a breath of relief. The effect of the space was almost instant: an overwhelming sense of familiarity, a safe spot that didn’t have to be breached by anybody else. Here, I was free to react in whatever way felt necessary, with nobody’s judgmental gazes telling me I was doing it wrong.

                  If it was possible to even do grief incorrectly, I appeared to have managed it.

                  On my way across the room, back towards the unmade bed, I caught sight of my reflection in Reese’s wall mirror. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, of course; I’d have been much more surprised to realise I didn’t have a reflection, and I was kind of glad that I wasn’t dealing with a problem of that magnitude. Still, for a reason I couldn’t make sense of, I found myself pausing in front of it, turning back and meeting the gaze of my reflected image.

                  It was always going to be strange; looking into the mirror and seeing an exact replica of your dead sister probably wouldn’t ever fall completely into normality. The way my hair fell in unruly curls in front of my face, the eyes a shade of green people never failed to comment on, the freckled skin that reddened at the slightest bit of sun exposure; it was all something I’d been looking at for years, whether on my own or Reese’s face. We’d never met somebody who could tell us apart one hundred per cent of the time; while Mum and Brian were pretty good, they’d always had their moments. Really, we’d been the only two that had it completely sorted.

                  My reflection stared back at me in all the ways I would’ve expected it to; a bare-faced look of sadness was coupled with an altogether unkempt appearance. I only kept myself looking for a couple of seconds, since there really wasn’t anything interesting to see. Sure, it was slightly unnerving to see a duplicate of Reese staring back at me, but I’d held onto enough sanity to know it was still me.

                  And yet, as I turned away, I could’ve sworn I saw something. A fraction of a second, caught in the corner of my eye: a mark that had my heart skipping a beat.

                  The only physical difference between us – other than Reese’s secret tattoo – came down to a single birthmark. She’d had one; I didn’t. It was only a tiny blob underneath her left ear, something you’d had to get really close to even notice, but of course we knew about it. Though I’d never really believed her myself, she’d always sworn it was the exact shape of a four-leaf clover, insisting she’d been branded with lifelong good luck. It didn’t matter how many times I told her it was just a blob; her belief had never faltered.

                  Undoubtedly, I was imagining things. There was no logical explanation for anything I thought I might’ve seen; it must’ve been my exhausted mind playing tricks. I told myself that as I clambered into the unmade bed, pulling the covers around me in a sort of cocoon, the same way I’d come to rely on in the last month.

                  And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about it. For one moment – a tiny second, amongst everything else – I’d been almost certain I caught sight of Reese’s birthmark under my own ear.

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So, what do you think? I'm kinda nervous to post this, just because the first chapter was a bit of a spur-of-the-moment thing, and the last story turned out to be such a total flop. However, this one definitely feels more "right", so I'm hoping that's a good sign.

Please be kind to the girl who's trying to stray slightly out of her comfort zone, without entirely leaving teen fiction/romance. Let me know what you thought in the comments :)