"Miss Sanders? Can you hear ?"
That na again.
Mira’s head was spinning. That wasn’t her na at all. Her na was Mira Carter.
Mira. Carter.
She ignored the nurse and looked around the huge, fancy room wildly, wondering if maybe there was another patient. So girl nad Sanders next to her?
But there wasn’t anyone. The room was empty except for her.
And it didn’t even look much like a hospital room. It was too nice. It looked like a hotel suite that soone had shoved a dical bed into. It even slled like roses.
Had the nurse wandered into the wrong room?
Her throat felt like sandpaper as she spoke. "Who the hell is Miss Sanders?" she croaked out.
The nurse froze, blinking like the person in front of her had grown horns. "You are, Miss Sanders."
Mira’s lungs seed to cease working. "No, no, no. I think there is a mistake sowhere... my na is... Mira. Mira Carter."
But then the sound of her own voice made her freeze. The words ca out, but they sounded... wrong. Her voice... it wasn’t her voice.
It was smoother, silkier, and almost velvety, like she’d been drinking honey all her life.
She felt goosebumps. Everything felt off, yet she couldn’t pinpoint it yet.
She tried to push herself up on her elbows, but her arms wobbled like noodles, and she almost face-planted back into the pillows.
Her eyes caught her fingers on the white sheets, and she froze again.
There were no cracked, bitten nails from years of stress. Instead, her fingers were long and pale, topped with perfect, shiny pink nails that were overgrown. Like sothing from a magazine.
She could not help but flex the fingers, horrified. "What the actual hell... since when do I have manicure money?" she muttered out loud, baffled.
Her gaze dropped lower, and she imdiately noticed her very smooth thighs. No scars at all from hauling heavy boxes between her three jobs. The skin looked soft yet more pampered, like satin stretched over expensive porcelain.
And then her eyes dragged up, and her eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. "Excuse , when did I get blessed with..."
She cupped her breasts with both hands, scandalized. They were so full, heavy, and soft.
She could not help but scream this ti, even though it was to no one in particular. "Since when do I have D-cups? I was flat my entire life and now I wake up with..." She gave another helpless squeeze. "These?"
The absurdity slamd into her. Her whole life, she’d stuffed tissue into cheap bras for school plays, and now she was stacked like a Victoria’s Secret Angel?
She would have laughed if her heart wasn’t already palpitating sohow.
Already frantic, she tugged at the hospital gown as she patted her stomach. It was flatter and not the usual pot belly she was used to.
To Mira, this was now getting weird. Does almost dying change people this much?
Her hands shot upwards as she grabbed her hair in exasperation, but she stopped again and nearly scread.
Silky strands slid across her hands, spilling down her back. It was long, really long. She imdiately yanked them forward and was shocked to see that they were brown and glossy.
It was definitely not hers at all, so she grabbed a fistful of the hair near her scalp and gave it a sharp, dramatic yank, trying to pull it off because she was convinced it had to be a wig.
"Ow!"
But it was stuck. It was really truly growing out of her own scalp.
Mira gawked. Her hair had always been a short, ssy dirty blonde bob. Brittle and never growing no matter how hard she tried.
At this point, she had to squeeze her eyes shut, rocking back and forth on the bed and hoping that this was yet another crazy dream.
"I an, who the hell dyes a patient’s hair and adds clips while they’re out cold? Is that even legal?" she mumbled to herself.
Her ltdown and confusion was cut short by the sound of the door slamming open as two won rushed in.
The first was older, maybe in her forties, and dressed in elegant clothes that scread money. Her eyes were full of tears as she rushed to the bedside and grabbed Mira’s hands, clutching them like they were a lifeline.
"Oh Lorena! My poor baby!" she wailed, her voice trembling. "You’re awake! Thank God! Why would you do this to yourself? You scared to death, you know?"
Mira flinched. The woman’s grip was tight, and her crying was too loud.
Who was this lady?
The second woman was younger, likely in her early twenties. She was pretty, but she had a weird smug look on her face even as she sobbed into a tissue.
"Yeah, Lorena," the younger one said, her voice dripping with concern that Mira could imdiately tell was fake. "How could you try to kill yourself like that? After all the support and love you have? That’s just so... dramatic of you."
Mira’s eyes zeroed in on the younger woman’s hand. She seed to be subtly typing on her phone behind the tissue, but she could not dwell on that because they had yet called her another na she didn’t bear: Lorena.
And she also felt weird because nobody had ever rushed to her side this way, ever. When she’d been sad or sick, she was always alone.
They always kicked her down even more. And when she’d tried to die, not a single person even cared at her funeral.
But these strangers were acting like her life mattered. Even if the other lady’s concern felt fake, it was more than she’d ever had. It was still a total contrast to her life.
"Lorena, honey. Speak to ," the older woman cried, stroking her hand. "Are you in pain? Do you need anything?"
"Lorena, the doctors said you need to rest to get your head together," the younger one added, not even looking up from her phone.
Lorena. Lorena. Lorena.
The na continued to echo in Mira’s skull. It was like a record stuck on a word she didn’t know.
Lorena who? she scread in her head. That’s not my na! Who the actual fuck is Lorena, and why was she being called that?
She was starting to panic even more, so she had to check. She had to see what they were seeing.
"I... I need to stand," she mumbled, pulling her hand away from the crying woman.
"Oh, sweetheart, no, you’re too weak."
But Mira was already pushing herself off the bed. Her legs shook violently, and a sharp pain shot up her side.
She was clearly still weak, but she ignored it and staggered toward the huge window on the other side of the room.
She finally reached the window, while already breathing like she had run a marathon, and then she clawed the curtain aside.
The glass was dark, acting like a mirror, and staring back at Mira was a stranger.
A girl with long black hair flowing down her back. A flawless pale face with delicate features.
Lips that were naturally full and pink. Eyes dark like obsidian jewels. Cheekbones sculpted so sharp they looked like they could cut glass.
Mira choked. She actually doubled over, coughing as her legs gave out causing her to slide down the window fra onto the floor.
"Oh hell no," she coughed out. "That... that’s not . That’s—"
The recognition hit her as her mind flashed back to a gossip blog she’d scrolled past last week and then to a movie she’d binge-watched while eating leftover noodles.
That face. That infamous, perfect face.
She forced her eyes back up to the reflection, and the beautiful, terrifyingly familiar face stared back, mirroring her own horror.
"Why the actual fuck am I staring at the Lorena Sanders?"
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