CHAPTER 03
The sting of Kyle's hand across my face lingered long after the echo of his accusation faded. "You fell in love with those basketball players, right?" It wasn't the truth, not entirely. But seeing the hurt and anger in his eyes, I understood why he'd say it.
"Kyle," I started, my voice trembling, "it's not that simple. I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore."
The memories, Zoey's memories, felt like whispers on the wind, swirling around me, tugging at the edges of my own identity. They were so vivid, so real, it was like Zoey controlling me. She was dead, right? She was killed by her stepmom.
Kyle had noticed, seen the way I drifted, lost in the echoes of a past life that wasn't mine. Shame coiled in my chest. Using Zoey's body felt wrong, yet the pull towards the basketball players, echoes of their connection with her, were undeniable.
"You know what? Since the day you woke up from that hospital, you're completely different." His anger grew even more. "What's wrong with you, huh?"
His accusation pierced my heart like a shard of glass. "Different?" I stammered, feeling a wave of panic rise. "What do you mean?"
Anger twisted his features, his voice taut with suspicion. "Everything! You used to laugh more, loved hanging out with me, and now... you spend all your time lost in thought, staring at those basketball players like you're possessed."
Shame burned my cheeks. He wasn't wrong. Since waking up from the hospital, a veil had lifted, revealing fragments of a past life, of Zoey.
"Kyle, I..." I started, struggling to explain the whirlwind within. But words failed me. How could I describe the confusion, the yearning, the guilt that gnawed at me for inhabiting Zoey's body?
He saw my hesitation, his anger morphing into frustration. "Look, if you don't want to be with me anymore, just say it," he spat, his voice thick with hurt. "Don't string me along."
Tears welled in my eyes. Hurting him wasn't my intention. But keeping this secret, pretending to be someone I wasn't, felt suffocating.
Tears welled in my eyes as Kyle's car sped away, his final glare echoing in the empty street. It wasn't just his anger that stung, but the pain in his voice, the hurt I'd mirrored back at him. Pushing him away wasn't what I wanted, but the chaotic whirlpool within me demanded space, time to process this impossible reality.
Alone in the silence of the house, I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Selfishness pricked at my conscience. Kyle cared, he wanted to understand, yet I'd shut him out. But the truth felt too fragile, too unbelievable, even for my own ears.
Memories flickered through my mind, Zoey's memories. Were they mine, or hers? The lines blurred, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion.
Tears blurred my vision as Dad approached, his concerned gaze washing over me. The fight with Kyle felt fresh, raw, etched across my face in tear tracks. He gently pulled out a chair, his weathered face filled with worry.
"I've never seen you two like that," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "Tell me what's wrong, my dear Zoey."
The name, Zoey, tasted foreign on his tongue, a borrowed cloak that no longer fit. I craved to confess, to unburden myself of the impossible truth – that I wasn't his daughter, not Zoey, but Samantha, a soul reborn in borrowed body and memories, although I retained my own memories. But fear coiled in my chest, squeezing the words into silence. Would he believe me? Would such a fantastical tale shatter our bond?
Silence stretched between us, thick and stifling. I opened my mouth, then closed it, the words refusing to form. Shame gnawed at me – shame for keeping this secret, shame for hurting Kyle, shame for not being the daughter he thought I was.
Finally, I mumbled, "It's just... a lot going on with Kyle and me." It wasn't a lie, not exactly. But it wasn't the truth either, and the weight of that half-truth felt heavy on my conscience.
Dad's brow furrowed. He saw deeper, understood more than I gave him credit for. "Is there anything else, Zoey?" he asked, his voice gentle yet firm. "You know you can tell me anything."
The urge to confess warred with the fear of rejection. Would my fantastical story shatter the trust we shared? Could I risk losing the one person who believed I was his daughter, even if I wasn't?
Taking a deep breath, I chose a compromise. "Maybe later," I mumbled, clutching the worn notebook close to my chest. "I just need some time to… figure things out."
He sighed, the disappointment evident in his eyes, but he didn't press further. Instead, he placed a hand on my shoulder, offering silent support. "Alright, sweetheart. But remember, I'm always here for you, no matter what."
His words, though simple, held a profound weight. I squeezed his hand, a silent thank you for his understanding. The truth couldn't wait forever, but for now, I clung to the comfort of his presence, a reminder that even without his full truth, I wasn't entirely alone.
Sleep was a stubborn stranger, leaving me tossing and turning under the weight of the fight with Kyle and the secret gnawing at my insides. Zoey's worn notebook lay clutched in my hands, its worn pages offering a flimsy comfort.
The air at the university held a different weight, every corner whispering memories laced with Kyle's laughter and our shared dreams. It hurt, the phantom ache of a life I left behind, fueled by the cold embers of revenge.
"What's wrong with you and Kyle?" My friend asked me.
"Just a difference in priorities," I mumbled to my friend's question, the smile I offered failing to reach my eyes. They shrugged, oblivious to the storm raging within.
My focus narrowed, laser-sharp on Marco Montefalco, the man who shattered my life. I approached him cautiously, weaving a tapestry of lies and half-truths, borrowing threads from Zoey's memories to gain his trust.
"You're Marco, right?" I asked, injecting a shaky smile into my voice. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs, fear and anticipation warring within me.
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze sharp, searching. The weight of my confession hung heavy in the air, its impact still unknown. Would he see through the carefully constructed persona I'd built? Or would he see a flicker of Zoey in my borrowed smile?
"Yes," he finally answered, his voice low and cautious.
The single word seemed to hold a universe of emotions – surprise, suspicion, perhaps even a flicker of hope. It was enough.
"Do you have time?" I pressed, pushing past the fear, clinging to the lifeline his single word offered. "Perhaps... over coffee?"
His hesitation seemed to stretch into an eternity, each passing second amplifying the pounding in my chest. Then, slowly, a reluctant nod. Relief washed over me, warm and unexpected. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start.
As we walked side-by-side towards the nearby café, a silent understanding hung between us. I wasn't Zoey, but he wouldn't turn away.
The silence over the steaming coffee felt deafening, each unanswered question hanging heavy in the air. Taking a deep breath, I decided to cut through the awkwardness. Maybe it was the caffeine, maybe it was the raw vulnerability already exposed, but the question blurted out before I could filter it: "Do you have a girlfriend?"
His surprised response was immediate, coffee sputtering from his lips as he set the cup down with a clinking tremor. "We broke up," he managed, his voice rough, "six months ago."
Unexpected sympathy tugged at my heart. My casual inquiry had evidently struck a deeper chord. "Oh, I'm sorry," I mumbled, the words hollow even to my own ears.
He sighed, his gaze distant. "It's alright. Life throws you curveballs, doesn't it?"
His words echoed in my mind, echoing my own experience with unexpected turns. A strange silence settled between us, heavy with shared grief and unspoken thoughts.
Suddenly, the air seemed charged with something intangible. Two lost souls adrift in separate storms, we had somehow found ourselves here, in this café, across this table. Was it a mere coincidence, or something more?
With newfound resolve, I cleared my throat. "Maybe," I started slowly, "we can help each other navigate these... curveballs."
His eyes flew back to mine, curiosity sparking within them. "What do you mean?"
"I can be your girlfriend." The words tumbled out before I could stop them, surprising even myself. Just recently, I'd ended things with Kyle, the pain still raw. Was this rebound, or something more? Guilt pricked at me. No. Revenge was my intention. As Marco stared at me, his expression unreadable.