Olivia and I, twins, have always been on the heavier side, often the butt of jokes among boys.
She's had a lifelong love affair with fast food, spending her whole paycheck on greasy pork and spicy noodles. She'd constantly borrow money for more, then post-binge, vow to stop—promises made and broken.
In my previous life, she'd throw shade subtly, using my weight as a weapon to prop up her shaky self-esteem.
She dragged me into her dieting schemes, well aware of my stressful job. Pushing bland veggies and late-night runs, I grew increasingly frail, collapsing from lack of proper nutrition.
Only when I was hospitalized did she feign innocence, "I didn't realize Megan was so frail! How can you blame me? I was just trying to help!"
Meanwhile, after pretending to stick to salads, she'd gorge on secret midnight snacks, ignoring my hunger-induced dizziness.
I once believed she was merely naive; deep down, a good person. It took dying from cyberbullying to see she'd never cared at all, always viewing me as a rival, resentful of any happiness I found.