You do not dream often, but sometimes you get lucky. On your lucky nights, you meet a teenage girl. 

She is small for her age, thin limbs battered by a life of torment. Her hair is choppy and her feet are bare, and she wears something akin to a hospital gown. On her back are six feathery wings, and she glows like the sun. You are intimidated by the girl despite her small stature. She always gives you a smile. 

You are four years her senior, and yet it does not feel that way at all. She is so wise. You catch yourself staring often. Whenever she notices, she smiles and asks, What are you thinking? You do not know how to answer. You opt for the truth. 

I wish I was more like you, you say, and the girl’s eyes get very soft. 

You don’t need to be like me, says the girl. I think you’re pretty cool. 

You wish you could resent her for saying that. You find you cannot. 

They love you so much, you say. You can feel her gaze raking down your skin. Everyone loves you so much. I wish I could give them something—anything. 

The girl is a quiet girl. She does not speak when she thinks, and she makes no sound when she moves. She has spent many years living as a ghost. You suppose you should find solace in that—she is prepared for what is to come. 

I don’t hate you, she eventually says. She is curled up into a ball, and she is so tiny and you are so large. I know you probably think I do. But I don’t. I don’t hate you for taking my place. You should, you say, and she clenches her hands on her own arms. 

I can’t. I’m just glad that there’s still someone to love them all, even if it’s not me. The girl smiles a bittersweet smile. You feel like she is lying. You feel like any fifteen-year-old girl should be selfish. She should resent you for wearing her face. 

​

I’m not afraid, you know, says the girl. Of dying. I’m not afraid. 

I wish I was more like you, you say, and she does not respond. 

You know the girl is scared. Maybe not of death, but you know she is scared. She is scared of many things—being forgotten, causing harm, helplessness. She is a very selfless girl and you know that she would be a wonderful adult, if only she was given the chance. 

I don’t want you to worry, says the girl to you. I’ll be okay. So will everyone else. They’ll learn and heal. I’ll be close by. So you don’t have to worry. 

I do, you tell the girl. I do have to worry. I have to live up to the expectations you set. I have to be everything you were. 

You don’t. Haven’t I said that already? 

But— You’re a good person. I know it’ll be hard for everyone, and especially for you, but I know you’ll be okay. I mean, we survived the Russian Red Death! 

I have no memory of— 

But our body does. I won’t be gone, not entirely. Our body remembers, so I will always be here. 

…It’s not enough. 

The girl does not respond. You think she is probably trying to decide what to say. You think she probably cannot bring herself to say the truth. 

Is there any way to stop it? you ask. It is a pointless question. 

No. That’s just how our story will go. 

You shouldn’t have to die. 

… 

​

You’re so young.

…Yeah, but fifteen years—eighteen years. That’s still a long time. I’ve been pretty lucky. Not long enough. You deserve to live for so much longer, to grow up and experience the world, to continue nurturing those bonds you’ve made— After so many years of torture and pain, you deserve to be free, you deserve to live—! 

The girl is smiling. She is also crying. You realize that you, too, are crying. That’s just how our story goes, the girl whispers. You cannot help but cry. What right do you have to cry? You are certain now: She is stronger than you will ever be. I can’t replace you, you say, almost begging. I can’t do that to you. Please don’t make me do that to you. You can’t die. 

The girl unfurls herself and rises until she is able to kiss your forehead. It feels like a blessing. It is the worst blessing you have ever been given. 

If I don’t die, you can’t live. And I want you to live. 

You cry. You cry and you cry. Your heart aches, so tight in your throat you think you may choke on it. 

How can I? you ask. How can I possibly live like this? 

You’ll find a way. I want you to live. The world is such a beautiful place. You deserve to see it all. 

You wish she was talking to a mirror; maybe then you could be forgiven. Her big angel wings cocoon you, shrouding you in warm feathers. You hold her, and she is so small in your arms. She tries not to make a sound, but you are able to feel her tears on your shoulder. I’m so sorry, you say. 

​

The girl does not chastise you for apologizing. Her shaking hands clench your shirt. When she speaks, she finally sounds how she should. Like a scared, young child. I’m sorry, too, she says. 

You wish there was a better way to end your dreams, but you only wake up once she is gone.