Ophelia
I lie still, eyes on the ceiling, tracing the ornate plasterwork as I wait for a respectable hour to rise.
Term begins today, and I have already made an entrance. Not the kind anyone might envy, the kind where you return to the academy bleeding from a cut across your forehead and then proceed to collapse in the middle of the dining hall.
With a groan, I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
Seven a.m. at last.
I had been awake since five, that part is nothing new. What is new is waking with nowhere to go, no way to burn through the restless energy coiled beneath my skin.
Most mornings, Bellamy anchors me. A few quiet hours in the stables before the rest of the academy stirs.
But not today. Father has delayed his arrival, a transport issue, he called it. I know better. Punishment always comes in subtle forms.
My chest tightens, no ride, and less peace.
I check my messages, though I already know the answer. Nothing from Eleanor. My heart sinks further.
I flick to Instagram instead. Notifications flood in, messages, comments, some admiring, some cruel. The usual chorus.
I scroll absently, tapping likes without thought, until one post stops me cold.
It’s a photograph of me and Octavia leaving the infirmary yesterday. I look worn, hunted, and as I study my sister’s face, so does she. My hair is caught by the wind, pulling back to expose the neat line of stitches at my temple.
The caption reads: The Bellanti sisters are back. Ophelia stitched up and looking guilty, Octavia smashing phones like the psycho she is.
My stomach knots. Gossip spreads faster than wildfire here, and that account, the so called academy gossip feed, ensures it reaches everyone. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if the photo’s already been lifted onto news pages.
With a snap of irritation, I toss my phone onto the bed. I should know better. I usually post and leave, block anything tied to my name. But sometimes even that isn’t enough.
Carefully, I sit up. My head swims, and an ache unfurls beneath my ribs as I straighten. The moment my feet touch the floor, they throb with every shift of weight. A low groan slips out. I feel as though I’ve been struck head on. Perhaps I have.
How would I know?
Trying to summon the night only worsens the pounding behind my eyes, so I’ve stopped.
Yet the need to know what happened gnaws at me, and the knowledge that a boy was found dead leaves a heavier dread in its place.
I exhale, refusing to dwell on it as I rise and make my way to the bathroom.
After a shower, I brush my teeth, smooth on moisturiser, and swallow the tablets the doctor prescribed.
Then, I step into my closet. I don’t feel inclined to wear anything polished today. Truthfully, I’d rather crawl back into bed and wallow in self-pity.
I feel hollow. Not merely tired or sore, but depleted, as though a vital part of me has been taken and may never return.
I don’t even notice the tears until their warmth slides down my cheeks.
The pain in my head flares again, a dull throb gathering behind my eyes.
If I remembered the smallest detail about myself, I might know whether it was simply my cycle approaching, that at least would explain the state I’m in.
But I don’t.
Even the most ordinary knowledge of myself has been stolen, lost with the rest of me.
I steady my breath.
Only once my pulse has calmed do I move to the racks, selecting a short navy skirt, pleated and perfectly pressed.
I pair it with a crisp white button down, and slip a pale beige Prada knit vest over the top.
From a velvet lined drawer, I take a pair of soft grey socks, rising higher than the ankle yet falling short of the knee. The UGGs are the final touch.
I study my reflection in the mirror. I’ve always loved autumn outfits, they carry the effortless charm of a rom-com wardrobe, which I secretly adore.
Leaving the closet, I return to the bedroom.
My hair is still damp, so I take up the dryer and work it through the lengths until it falls in soft, silvery waves down my back.
From the front, just above my right temple, I separate a strand and braid it loosely, fastening the end with a delicate gold clip.
My fingers still.
It catches the light, a small crescent moon in polished gold, a diamond set at its centre.
Beautiful.
I can’t remember where it came from, but it pulls at me all the same. My eyes stay fixed on it...
“Close your eyes,” a deep voice says.
“Now open.”
A small box. A moon shaped hair clip. Gold, with a diamond set at the centre.
I look up, my chest lifting with a rush of happiness, a smile stretching so wide it aches.
The memory slices through me without warning.
“Ahh—” A cry tears from my throat as I fall to my knees, clutching my temples. White light bursts behind my eyes, searing and relentless. My breath turns shallow.
What was that?
A memory?
A dream?
A hallucination?
There was a man. Who was he? And why did it feel so important, vital, even, as though it mattered more than anything?
I try to dismiss it, to insist it was nothing but imagination. Yet when my gaze drops to the clip, still fastened in place, doubt coils tighter.
And I am no longer certain.
The urge to cry threatens again, undoubtedly the hormones.
I leave my bedroom and head for the kitchen, switching on the coffee machine. The grinder growls to life, the sound rousing me before the scent can.
I make myself a coconut cappuccino in a takeaway cup and set an Americano aside for Octavia.
Then I prick my finger, let the drop of blood touch the strip, and wait for the number to appear.
I’m running slightly low, enough to know I’d be foolish to overlook it. I slip a granola bar into my bag, add an apple, and gather a few more snacks to keep on hand. The monitor goes in beside them, along with my injection pen.
My backpack hangs from one shoulder. I slip my keycard into the pocket of my vest, take up the cups, and step into the corridor.
It’s quiet, the hush of early morning pressing against the walls.
As I pull the door shut, I catch sight of Piper at the far end. She doesn’t glance back and I don’t call out.
Yesterday she made it plain enough she wanted no company. She’s always been guarded, yes, but never with us. Once, we’d managed to coax her into trust.
However now she feels entirely out of reach.
The hall is otherwise still, doors shut, silence pressing behind them, whether they’re still sleeping or already gone, I can’t tell.
All except Eleanor’s. I know that one is empty. My gaze lingers there, a knot tightening in my chest.
I knock softly at Octavia’s door. No answer. I try again, harder this time. There’s a muffled rustle, a heavy thud, and finally the door swings open.
She appears, her rosy hair tangled, drowning in a shirt that could only belong to a man, one shoulder bare where the fabric has slipped. Her green eyes are heavy with sleep, her scowl fierce with irritation. I’ve committed the cardinal sin, waking her.
I hadn’t seen her since the morning I collapsed in the dining hall.
Yesterday I hardly left my room, tea, whatever I could scavenge from the fridge and cupboards, far too many snacks, and The Vampire Diaries playing on a loop while rain battered the windows.
None of it unusual, except I did it alone.
Once, we would have drifted between each other’s rooms, evenings spent in easy company.
Now there’s a fracture I can’t explain. Whether it began that night or earlier, before my memory broke apart, I cannot say.
I only know that nothing feels the same, that I’ve woken in a world I half recognise but no longer belong to.
Lost in thought, I trail after my sister as she pads back toward her bedroom, nudging the door shut behind me with my leg.
Her dorm mirrors mine in layout, but inside it is entirely her own.
The cushions, the bedding, mismatched, careless, yet somehow cohesive.
What truly sets it apart is the living room, canvases propped against every wall, brushes strewn across the floor, jars of water muddied with colour.
Some works are complete, others abandoned mid stroke, but all of them breathtaking. Octavia is an artist, one of the finest I’ve ever seen, though she’d rather die than admit it.
I set the cups on the island and step into her room. She’s already sprawled across the bed on her stomach, hair a tangled halo, her breathing deep and even.
I’d almost swear she’s begun to snore.
“We’re going to be late.”
“I don’t have first period,” she mutters into the pillow.
I roll my eyes. It’s always her excuse. Whenever she can’t be bothered to get up, she claims she’s free.
“We all have first period. It’s the opening assembly.”
“Ugh. Five more minutes.”
I stride to the window and tug open the curtains. Sunlight floods the room, blinding, and she curses loudly before dragging herself upright and stumbling into the bathroom.
Left alone, I watch the woods beyond the glass, the leaves already beginning to turn, sunlight flickering through branches. I can almost feel the breeze.
It’s beautiful now, but this island shifts on a whim, in five minutes, it could be a downpour.
I retreat to the living area, and soon Octavia emerges, jeans fitted perfectly to her frame, a loose knitted jumper I’m quite sure is mine, trainers, her pink hair falling in waves. Just a swipe of makeup.
“Your coffee,” I say, nodding toward the cup.
“You’re a lifesaver. Black, right? Not trying to poison me with milk?”
I roll my eyes. “Indeed. As black and bitter as your soul. And for the record, you wouldn’t die if you drank milk.”
She shudders. “Don’t joke about it. I’d absolutely die. Or at least vomit, yes, definitely vomit.”
I roll my eyes again. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who despises milk quite as much as you.”
“Despises is putting it mildly,” she retorts, and I laugh, relieved to glimpse the sister I know.
Octavia is chaos and charm in equal measure. Brilliant, loyal, lethal when crossed, and utterly unfiltered when it comes to protecting those she loves.