My Life: A Journey of Love and Loss

I used to believe we were born with the same soul, just split between two bodies. My sister, my shadow, my blood. We were stitched together by laughter, secrets whispered in the dark, and a love that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood. She was my first home.

And then, I lost her.

Not all at once. It was slow, agonizing, like watching a house fall apart brick by brick, knowing you were too late to stop it.

Anya was the kind of person who could walk into a room and change the air. People felt her before they even saw her, the gravity of her presence pulling them into her orbit. She was warmth and fire, wild and untamed. And yet, beneath all that light, there was something fragile, something that only I could see.

We had grown up side by side, our lives woven together so tightly that it was impossible to tell where I ended and she began. We had the same rhythm, the same heartbeat. When she laughed, I could feel it in my own chest. When she cried, I tasted the salt in my mouth.

Our childhood was filled with shared moments. We spent hours in the woods behind our house, building forts out of fallen branches and pretending we were explorers. Anya always led the way, her imagination boundless, while I followed, content to be her shadow. She would point to the clouds and say, “That one’s a dragon,” or “That one’s a castle. See the towers?” I never saw the towers, but I nodded anyway, because her joy was contagious.

At night, we would lie in the grass, the stars stretching endlessly above us. Anya would tell me stories about the constellations, weaving tales of heroes and monsters, love and loss. “That’s Orion,” she’d say, tracing the shape with her finger. “He’s chasing the Pleiades, but he’ll never catch them.” I didn’t understand the stories, but I loved the sound of her voice, the way it made the world feel magical.

We were inseparable, two halves of a whole. Even when we fought—over toys, over who got the last cookie—we always found our way back to each other. “I’m sorry,” she’d say, her eyes wide and earnest. And just like that, the fight was forgotten, replaced by laughter and the unshakable certainty that we were forever.

And then he arrived.

Dante.

He was different. He carried himself like he had been carved from something sharper than the rest of us. He was all smooth lines and quiet danger, a man who knew the power of his own presence. He spoke in a way that made you believe him. He made Anya believe.

I remember the first time I saw him. It was at a party, the kind where the music was too loud and the air was thick with smoke and sweat. He stood at the edge of the room, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator. When he saw Anya, his gaze locked onto her, and I felt a pang of something I couldn’t name. Jealousy? Fear? I didn’t know, but I knew something was wrong.

He approached her with a confidence that made my stomach twist. “You’re Anya, right?” he said, his voice smooth and low. She nodded, her cheeks flushing. “I’ve heard about you.” He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. Anya was captivated.

“You were born for more,” he told her once, his voice dripping with the kind of promise that makes young girls leave everything behind. “You don’t belong in this place. You were meant to shine.”

And she believed him. Oh, how she believed him.

At first, it was small things. She would disappear for hours, then days. She stopped laughing the way she used to, stopped finishing my sentences. I would find her staring out the window, lost in a world I couldn’t follow her into.

“Come back,” I whispered to her one night, gripping her hand like I could hold her together. “Please.”

She smiled, but it was wrong, like a mask that didn’t quite fit. “I’m fine, Naia. I swear.”

But she wasn’t.

Dante had a way of making her feel special, like she was the only person in the world who mattered. And then he would take it away. He pulled her into his orbit and left her spinning, desperate to hold on. He became her sun, and she revolved around him, burning in his heat.

The first time he hurt her, she didn’t tell me. I saw the bruise on her wrist, the way she flinched when I reached for her. But she just laughed it off, said she had tripped, said I worried too much.

I didn’t believe her, but I wanted to.

Then the bruises became more frequent. The light in her eyes dimmed. She spoke in hushed tones, glancing over her shoulder as if afraid of being overheard.

I begged her to leave.

“He loves me,” she said, and I wanted to scream.

“Anya, love doesn’t do this,” I pleaded, but she just shook her head.

“He needs me.”

And that was the worst part. Because she truly believed that.

One night, she didn’t come home. I searched everywhere, the streets swallowing my footsteps. I called her name, but the wind carried it away. And then, I found her.

She was sitting on the steps of an abandoned building, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her hair was tangled, her lips cracked. The weight of the world sat heavy on her shoulders.

“Anya,” I whispered, kneeling beside her.

She turned to me, her eyes hollow. “I can’t leave him.”

“Yes, you can. We can do it together.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who I am without him.”

I wanted to grab her, to drag her away, to remind her of who she was before he took everything from her. But I knew. I knew she was already too far gone.

So I did the only thing I could. I sat with her. I held her hand. I stayed.

The call came late. A stranger’s voice on the other end, cold and detached.

“There’s been an incident.”

I don’t remember the rest. Just the sound of my own breathing, too loud in my ears. The way my hands trembled. The way the world blurred around me as I ran to her, hoping, praying.

But I was too late.

I found her in a small, dimly lit room, curled up like a child. She looked peaceful, like she was sleeping. But there was no breath. No warmth. Just the echo of who she used to be.

The weight of it crushed me.

I screamed. I sobbed. I called her name, over and over, like I could bring her back by sheer will.

But she didn’t answer.

They said it was an overdose. They said it was an accident.

But I knew the truth.

Anya didn’t die from a needle. She died the moment she believed she wasn’t enough without him. She died the moment she let him convince her that love should hurt. She died long before that final breath.

And I? I died with her.

Because how do you keep living when half of you is gone?

I carried her with me in the days that followed. I saw her in reflections, in the way the wind rustled the trees. I heard her laughter in my dreams, waking up with the phantom sound still ringing in my ears.

They buried her in a place she never belonged. A quiet cemetery, rows of stone marking names and dates, as if a few carved words could contain everything she was.

I left a single sunflower on her grave. She had always loved them.

And then I walked away.

I don’t know where I’m going.

But I know I carry her with me. In the way I breathe. In the way I love. In the way I refuse to let the world convince me that I am not enough.

Anya is gone.

But I am still here.

And that has to mean something.

Doesn’t it?