The Instagram search started off like a harmless scroll, but Maya knew damn well she was walking straight into enemy territory. Curiosity? Please. This was full-blown espionage. She told herself it was just for inspiration—just a little vibe check to help her act the part. But the second she found the account, she knew she was lying to herself.
@sammy.sunbeam.
The name alone was enough to make her pause. Sunbeam. Who the hell picked a name that soft? It felt like a dare. She tapped in.
The grid loaded—every post a punch to the gut.
There was Sammy, sprawled across a picnic blanket, holding an iced coffee like she invented it. Her curls were wild and glorious, tossed up in a messy bun with baby hairs escaping like they had somewhere better to be. Her clothes were thrift-store cute. Flowy. Pastel. Not a single label in sight.
Maya hated how easily the jealousy snuck in. This girl didn't even try. She didn't need the attention. And yet, she had it. The kind that stayed.
She found the photo on the hill. The same hill Eddie took her to.
Sammy's caption: "He calls me sunshine. I think I'm falling for my starboy."
Maya's hand clenched around her phone until her nails dug into her palm. She stared at the image until it blurred, and for a second, she wasn't sure if she wanted to cry or throw her phone through the window.
The next morning felt like dressing for a funeral, except she wasn't mourning anyone but herself. Luna and Sally barged in early, all giggles and caffeine, but the second they saw Maya holding up the pale-blue dress, the vibe shifted.
"Wait, that's what you're wearing?" Luna asked, blinking.
"You look like a flower fairy," Sally said carefully. "Is that… the point?"
"I'm not supposed to look like me." Maya stepped into the dress, ignoring the way the cotton hugged her a little too gently. "I'm supposed to look like her."
They helped her with her makeup. No contour. No highlighter. Just blush, mascara, and a sweet lip balm that made her feel like a child playing dress-up. The messy curly bun was the final stab.
When Luna sprayed the perfume—a soft floral thing Maya had smelled once in Sammy's mother's living room—she nearly gagged.
"She wore this," Maya said.
Luna stared at her through the mirror. "You don't have to do this, babe."
"I do."
Eddie opened the door, and the world stopped breathing.
His mouth parted like he was about to say something, but nothing came out. Not even air. Just silence and a full-body stare that felt like it was peeling her skin back. His eyes scanned her face, her dress, her hair, her scent—and something inside him shattered like glass in a blender.
"W-what the hell—" he choked, stumbling back a step like she'd punched him.
Maya tilted her head and smiled softly. "Hi, Starboy."
He flinched like she'd stabbed him in the gut.
"No. No, no, no, no," he whispered, like a prayer or a panic attack. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
"You don't like it?" she asked sweetly, stepping past him into the living room. "I thought you loved her in blue."
"Take it off." His voice dropped, eyes red, chest rising fast. "Take that shit off right now."
"Why?" she said, spinning slowly. The hem of the dress caught the air. "You liked her like this, didn't you? Soft. Sweet. Easy to control."
"I said stop!" he snapped, and suddenly he was right there, grabbing her wrists. "Don't you fucking do this to me."
She didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. Just stared up at him with that same Sammy-glazed softness. "Do what? Remind you of the girl you killed?"
He dropped her wrists like they burned.
"I didn't kill her," he whispered.
"No?" Maya stepped closer. The scent of her perfume hit him again, and he blinked, like he was trying to stay awake inside a dream. "Because everything about me right now says otherwise. Same dress. Same hair. Same voice. Same fucking heart, Eddie."
His breath hitched.
"You know what's funny?" Maya asked, circling him slowly. "You never kissed me the way you did until after I told you about the transplant. Like something clicked in you. Like your dead girlfriend's ghost finally moved back into her body."
"Shut up."
"No," she said. "Not this time. You're gonna talk."
He turned away, hands shaking.
"I said talk."
"Maya, please," he said, voice trembling. "Don't do this."
"Then tell me what happened."
His back was to her. She saw his shoulders tense. Saw the war happening under his skin.
"Tell me what you did to her."
"I didn't do anything!"
She stormed over, grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking him to face her. "You want to keep lying?! You want to pretend you're innocent?!"
"We were drunk!" he screamed, finally cracking. "We were both so goddamn drunk! We shouldn't have even been driving—I knew that! But I thought I could hold it together."
"And then?"
"I pulled over. I told her I needed a second. I went out to throw up—I was barely standing—and when I came back she was in the driver's seat."
Maya's voice was sharp. "And you let her drive?"
"I didn't let her! I was barely conscious! I passed out next to her—I don't remember anything after that."
"And you just woke up the next morning, safe and sound?"
"In my bed. Hungover. Confused. My dad said I stumbled in around three in the morning, but I don't even remember that. I thought she was in the house with me. I looked for her. I called her. And then her mom called me and said she never came home."
The room went quiet.
"Do you know what it's like?" he said, voice cracking. "To wake up knowing your last words to someone you loved were 'I need to puke'?"
Maya's throat closed.
Eddie sank down to the couch, hands over his face, sobbing. "I kept going back to the hill. I kept thinking—maybe I made it up. Maybe I imagined her. And then I met you. And you looked like her. You smelled like her. You laughed like her when you weren't even trying to. And then the transplant—God, Maya, I thought maybe—maybe I got her back."
"You didn't," she said. Her voice was quiet. Deadly.
"I know."
She stood tall. Something inside her snapped free.
"I'm not your redemption arc," she said, slowly. "I'm not some recycled love story you get to rewrite with a happier ending."
He looked up at her, tears dripping down his face.
"You didn't fall for me," she whispered. "You fell for a haunted organ in my chest."
"That's not true."
"Yes, it is!" she shouted. "You wanted her back so badly, you looked right past me. You never even asked who I was—you just projected."
He shook his head. "Maya, I—"
"I am not Sammy."
"I know that—"
"I am Maya fucking Sinclair. I'm alive. I'm complicated. I'm annoying. I wear pink leather jackets and seven-hundred-dollar heels for fun. And you don't even know what my favorite song is."
He didn't answer.
She grabbed her purse.
"And one more thing," she said, pausing at the door. "You don't deserve to grieve her if all you ever do is use her."
That one hit.
She opened the door just as her phone buzzed in her hand. Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Maya Sinclair?"
The voice was calm. Male. Controlled.
"…Who's asking?"
"I have answers. About everything you've been looking for.I think it's time you knew the final piece of the puzzle," the voice said. "Meet me. Tonight."
Her heart slammed.
"Meet me," the voice said. "Tonight. You'll finally know the truth."
Click.
She stared at the screen for a beat, then looked up into the night sky, whispering to no one, "Let's finish this."