"Mirrors can't eat people," whispers my sister. She's lying on the hospital bed, holding mom's hand but staring at me, a crooked half-smile on her pasty face. She's drenched in sweat, bald, and her lips are cracked and swollen, but somehow Jia is still radiant.

"What?" asks mom, blinking away tears and looking from Jia to me. But it's not something she'd ever understand.

Jia says it again, slightly shaking her head and shutting her eyes as though she's about to rest. Her forehead glistens, and it hurts to see how small she is now. She's the older one. She knows everything there is to know about anything - she just got her Ph.D. in art history; she teaches at a big university - she's my older sister. She strokes mom's hand, and I can't help but notice how bony Jia's look. The veins like cobwebs. Please don't die.

Mom is still confused. Her face is red and I know how badly she wants to drink right now, but even she can't touch a bottle knowing Jia's time is counting down.

"Sam," whispers Jia gently. Her voice like a quiet morning breeze. The leaves quiver from its gentle caress, but not a sound is heard. Nothing susurrates; the morning is undisturbed.

That's how Jia always is. She never intrudes. She never pushes. She doesn’t have to. She's just there, patient and waiting and warm. She was the only one who understood my fear of being touched. My fear of being made to exist.

When I was a kid and couldn't sleep and mom was yelling at me, it was Jia who consoled me. Her arm wrapped around me, holding me against her as she takes deep breaths so that I can mimic her and fall asleep. She'll stroke my hair and hum to me while mom rants in the kitchen or on the phone or binges TV all night and drinks. It's Jia telling me mom doesn't mean the words she says. That I'm pretty. That I'm smart. That I can do anything.

It's Jia telling me not to be scared of the mirror in the dark. It's Jia telling me the mirror won't eat me. I'm safe. She's here. A dumb childhood fear that followed me all through my life. I hate my reflection. I hate seeing things flicker in the mirror. I swear something’s in there just waiting.

I'm sitting on the corner of her hospital bed. When I don't move, she calls my name again, this time using my full name, Samiya, and I break. I'm in her arms bawling my eyes out and trying not to squeeze her too tight. And she holds me feebly, not saying a word. The silence that gathers in the hospital room is the last time my head is quiet.

She strokes my hair, and I feel like I'm three years old again. She whispers that I'll be alright. I'm not that little girl terrified of mirrors anymore. I'll be okay. She'll always be there.

And then it's the morning after her funeral. Nobody really talks to you about this part. About after the prayers, and after the burial, and after everyone and offers you hugs, and you tell them you don’t want to be touched, and they think you’re rude. The condolences ring hollow, and you've stayed awake all night staring at the ceiling of your sister’s room riddled with holes from the time you tried to stick pencils in it. I sit on the edge of my sister's bed, my arms wrapped around my knees, still wearing my black dress from the funeral. I look at her dresser, the mirror she'd sit in front of every morning, showing me how she did her makeup. So that I could learn.

But I could never be as pretty as her. Where she was thin and graceful, I'd always been plump and bumbling. I played with the large blocks. She made palaces out of little Legos. She sang. She painted. She performed in school plays and competed in figure skating. I didn't join any clubs. I didn't try to stand out. I just stayed at home and read books and masturbated to people I had crushes on.

She's only three years older than me, and she'd done more with her life than I ever could. She’d graduated valedictorian. Got accepted into every elite university in the country but chose to stay here with us. With me. She had boys and girls fawning over her, but she didn’t date. She had to study and take care of me. And somehow, she'd written four novels before finishing undergrad. And even as mom bragged about Jia, I got all the hate and resentment.

And I couldn’t even blame mom. Mom just wanted a second perfect daughter, a matching set. And she tried to beat me into shape, like if she hit me enough times, my marble slab would result in something like one of those glorious statues Jia loved to sketch in museums. Mom tried her best to paint over my flaws and stamp out the misshapenness, and I just couldn’t do anything right.

But it was Jia helping me with my college applications. Telling me to take my time to declare my major. Find something you love. You’re bright. I got your back.

She could walk into a room and light it up and you’d forget all about the sun. Family gatherings or formal university events. She looked you in the eyes and wrenched the best part of you out from hiding with a simple smile.

Meanwhile, I hid in the corners, sat in the back of every class, trying not to think about how bad my hair looked, how blotchy my skin was, or how I'd messed up my makeup. My clothes fit awkwardly. My ass itched. My tummy ached. Talking to people made me want to crawl under the earth and try my best to be ignored. Jia was graceful, promising, intelligent, and alive. I was always ugly and deformed and still struggling to molt out of puberty. Please don’t ever touch me. I am gross and slimy.

I'd always hated my body. I still do. Even more so now, sliding into Jia's seat in front of her mirror. Turning on the lamp she kept on her dresser and staring at my large nose. My eyes, not quite as slender as Jia's or mom's. My lips just a little too plump. My jaws too pronounced. Maybe I took after dad, but I never met him and there were no pictures, so I’d never know.

Jia always told me they made me unique. They were my beautiful traits. But I didn't want to be unique. I wanted to be like her. Like everyone else. Fitting in seamlessly. Casually. As though smiling were as easy as breathing, and she'd catch me crying, and she'd hold me, and those were the only times I felt like my body wasn't wrong. In her arms, it was okay for me to be human.

I stare at myself until I swear my reflection blinks. I feel Jia's hand on my shoulder. Its warmth. Its tenderness. I feel her lips next to my ear. Her whisper ruffles my hair. Mirrors can't eat people, Sam. And even if they did, I wouldn't let them eat you.

I run out of her room, lock the door behind me, and I don't enter it again for a long time. I cover up all the mirrors in the apartment with wrapping paper, I don't trust my reflection. And mom doesn’t protest. She hoards all of Jia’s paintings in the living room. It hurts too much to look at those watercolor goddesses and flowers and serene landscapes; I don't know how mom can stand it.

Mom loses her job at the salon a few weeks later. She kept crying, and customers kept complaining, and while her boss tried to be understanding, Mom couldn't work. So, I pick up extra shifts at the Boba shop on campus. And somehow, with her unemployment and my wages and the assistance we get from the city, we keep our apartment. We only speak when I ask her to eat.

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We watch tv a lot. I don't even know what we watch. All the faces kind of blur and the stories all sound the same. She doesn't rant anymore, and she hasn't touched a bottle since Jia passed. It was something she made mom promise. And I'm surprised mom keeps it.

Sometimes, late at night, I'll hear her singing. She'll stay up late and walk around the living room, her footsteps creaking through the apartment. She'll try knocking on Jia's door and wait for a response before walking away to clean dishes that were already clean. And then I'll find her on the couch in the morning, clutching Jia's framed diploma, and I'll cover her with a blanket and then head off to morning classes. Sometimes, I wonder if she knows what she'd done. The immense pressure she'd put on Jia. The pressure to succeed, to get top grades, to be perfect. All the screaming and arguing and pointless expectations. I feel bitter and angry, but how do you look at someone who’s hurting so openly and hold a grudge?

Then one day, she says she's going to visit Jia's grave and never comes back. The checks still come and I deposit them into her account and manage the bills. I'll call her every morning to hear her recorded voice on the voicemail. I won't say anything. She never picks up or calls me back. Hi. It’s Lisa Chan, please leave message after tone. Thank you.

It's easier to listen to moms voice than Jia's.

My friends drift away, and honestly, it kind of hurts that none of them even really tried to stay in my life. Which I know is selfish because I'm the one who went quiet, but still. Sometimes I think they were just waiting for an excuse to leave me out of things.

My hair's thinning. I've quit all the routines Jia taught me. What's the point of the moisturizers and creams and scrubs when every scent reminds me of her? I shower every morning and slap on some cheap lotion. I’ve started wearing baseball caps. People don't bother me at school. Some guys hit on me at work from time to time then lose interest. I suppose the dead eyes turn them off. It's like resting bitch face but sad and not attractive. Some professors tell me they expect more, that I could do more, but I have nothing more to give. I still don't declare a major even though that deadline is approaching; I don't know what I want to do.

I'm empty. I know I'm hurt but I don't know how to voice it. And it only seems to feel worse. I lose so much weight; I wear baggy clothes so nobody notices. When I scrub myself in the shower, I realize I'm starting to look like Jia did before she died. My graying skin feels like it's rotting on my bones, and every time I scrub, I expect it to peel off. I hate my hair. It's thinned out so much that I can see my scalp when I catch my reflection on the subway. The bags under my eyes are just waiting to take over my face, and I really, really don't want to be in my body anymore.

I'm on autopilot. I'm just waiting for something. I'm not sure what. Or why. Maybe I'm hoping I'll drop dead soon enough. College becomes a blur of finals and papers and research, and I make so many servings of bubble tea that they're the only things I dream about. It's my breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I watch everyone else smile and have fun and wonder how they can laugh so wholeheartedly. It’s fun looking at them so closely, all the details of their faces lighting up. Their lives seem so beautiful, like they're starring in their own movies. How can I cross into their world? Is that even possible for me? I miss Jia so much; I don't know what to do. One day, I come home and the front door is off its hinges and smashed in.

The windows are broken. Every single one of them. The television is face-down on the coffee table. The shelf knocked over; everything is in disarray. They even tore up our couches, slashing through each seat and pillow. The stack of Jia’s paintings is untouched. For the first time in ages, my heart races. I rush into the kitchen and grab a knife off the floor. Dirty pots and pans are scattered all over; the tiles are cracked and chipped as though someone took a hammer to them. The oven door is shattered. The cabinets are splinters, and all the spice jars and extra dishes fill up the sink. The faucet was left running and bugs crawl over everything.

I know better than to shout. I should get out and call the police but a part of me wants this. Wants the danger. Wants to be caught and hurt and set free. I move quietly through the apartment, careful not to step on any glass. Someone must've broken in, but why? There's literally nothing of value here.

"Sam," whispers a voice. Jia's voice. It cuts through me, and my eyes go wide. I feel the sob get stuck in my lungs. And the pull I feel is like nothing I'd ever felt before. "It's going to be alright. I'm here."

I run toward her room. It's the only one with the door still standing. My bedroom. My mom's old room. The bathroom. Everything is ruined, and I think something's on fire, but this door is perfectly fine. My hand shaking, I grab the knob, expecting it to be locked, expecting I’d have to break it down. It turns.

Her door creaks open. Dust swirls through the air. "Jia?" I call out, my voice barely more than a whimper. The bed is exactly how I'd left it the morning after her funeral. The blanket on the floor. The pillows I’d squeezed that day. I don’t know what I was expecting, but she’s not here. The light on her dresser is still on; I’d never turned it off. Her mirror is the only uncovered mirror in the apartment. I think all the others are broken right now.

My feet move on their own. I'm still holding the knife. But I don't care anymore about the intruder. They could do whatever they wanted. I walk over to Jia's seat and slide in, staring at myself for the first time in months.

I don't blink, but my reflection does. It touches my gaunt face. I look like a ghost haunting myself. I look like my sister on her deathbed. I think about that hospital room. Sobbing in Jia's arms. Feeling the life drain out of me, and my heart beats harder and harder, till it’s so loud I can’t breathe. Till I swear it's going to drop into my belly.

Sound descends like an avalanche. The ceiling caves in. The building collapses, and I'm the epicenter. The focal point. Wooden beams rip out of the walls. Her bed bursts into flame, and all her shoes and clothes fly out of her closet; a whirlwind of her stuff batters me.

The city block and all the surrounding apartment buildings and cars and street signs convulse. They crash into one another, as though someone was trying to crumple the world like a piece of paper. A chorus of screams floods my head. Everyone is screaming. All my neighbors. All the people I share the subway with every morning. All the students from school and my professors. Everyone. Like they're all being ripped in half at the same time.

"Samiya," comes Jia's voice again, and the screaming stops. The world shudders, mid-collapse. Then, as though it were inhaling, Jia's mirror sucks everything in.

My fingers elongate first, stretching toward the glass. Rippling light gushes through me like blood as soon as my skin touches the cool surface of the glass. My reflection twists. Then the rest of me extends. The building folds into itself one more time, and we're all sucked into my reflection. Darkness envelops me. I lose sense of myself, my body. My mind is so quiet, I could cry, and it almost feels like someone is holding me up. Refusing to let me slip into the distorted world.

Then it spits me out, and I'm falling.

Falling. I glimpse trees and an expanse of white snow, and I'm hurtling toward it like a meteor. I don't crash.

It's more like I just wake up. I blink and I'm lying on my back, still wearing the black polo of my Boba shop uniform and clutching the knife. But I'm outside, surrounded by giant snow-covered trees. The world is glowing in the serene way it does after a snowstorm. The quiet is soothing and calm. I'm staring up at a sky bursting with stars. Something you’d never get to see in the city.

Sheets of light dance between them. Tears fill my eyes. I want to cry. I want to sob and scream and completely fall apart. The sky is bursting with light and color. Huge swaths of purple and blue. Pink bursting through like a river. It's like I'm seeing color for the first time in my life. I didn't think I'd ever get to see an aurora in my lifetime, and I'm wondering if I'm dead now too. If I'd find Jia here. I think I glimpse New York City in the aurora, but the light flickers, and the city vanishes.

Snow crunches, and I turn to see an old woman with a staff walking toward me. She's wrapped in a heavy brown cloak that drags through the snow. Her shadow crawls off the ground and rises, ascending and growing until it forms the dark head of a giant lizard over the woman’s silver hair. A shadowy forked tongue flickers out. Eyes as bright as the stars open, and I hear a rough voice that rumbles through the ground.

"Can I eat her?"