My knees were shaking as I stepped inside.

Willow was bent over, shaving her leg, her hair pulled up into a messy bun. She wore a tight top over cut-off jean shorts, and the radio on the counter was blasting that song.

I rubbed my eyes.

I was seeing things. I had stepped into a full-on hallucination, and my next stop would be the hospital.

Pinch yourself. You’ll wake up then.

But as I reached over and pinched myself, I felt the pang. I wasn’t dreaming.

Willow danced in place, that razor sliding up her leg in rhythm with the bass.

“Willow?” My voice cracked.

She looked up, a bright smile on her face. “Took you long enough. Jeez. Do you know how many times I’ve shaved my legs, hoping to get you down here? Too many, my sister, too many.” She touched her leg where there was no shaving cream and rubbed it. “Feel it. Totally smooth. I don’t even need to shave, but what do you do, I guess.”

“This isn’t real.”

She straightened, putting the razor in the sink and cleaning it off. “That’s what you think. It feels real to me.”

“You’re a ghost then?”

She tilted her head to the side, her messy bun tipping too. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t feel like a ghost.”

“But I can see you. I can hear you.” I could talk to her. I could smell her. If I reached for her, would I be able to touch her too?

Could I hug her, one last time?

She finished rinsing her razor and put it in the drawer. “You’ve been talking to me for months, but you keep thinking I’m a voice in your head.”

She was. Wasn’t she?

I rubbed my forehead, starting to feel some pressure there. “You’re saying this is real?”

She held her hands up in a helpless gesture. “I’m saying why do you have to classify it? Maybe you’re supposed to see me tonight? Maybe you’re supposed to hear me at times? Maybe you’re supposed to let me help you when I can, and maybe this is all your baggage trying to wake you up. Who knows? Who cares? You shouldn’t. You aren’t getting more messed up by talking about me. Trust me. You’ll only get more fucked up by not talking about me.”

I couldn’t handle this.

Grief rose in me, sharp and hungry as it threatened to eat me alive. I felt it taking over me, taking little bites.

What was happening to me?

But then Willow was in front of me. She had crossed the room. A light came from behind her, and I felt its warmth on me. Her vanilla-scented rose infused my nostrils, and she was so real. Tears slid down my face.

I wanted her to be real.

I wanted to see my sister one more time.

“Ssshh.” She touched my cheek, and all the pain was gone.

It was swept away, replaced with a warmth like sun touching my skin.

“Willow,” I choked out.

“I know. I know.” She traced her hand down the side of my face, tucking some of my hair behind my ear. “I know, Mac. I really do, and I am here. I am real. I’ll always be here.”

I was still crying. “You aren’t really here. I can’t laugh with you, grow with you. I can’t—I’m alone, and you know it.”

I didn’t know when I’d be able to touch her again.

“Why’d you go?”

I couldn’t bring myself to say the actual word for what she did, but I could see it all again.

My face: dark eyes, golden blonde hair, heart-shaped chin

My body: slender arms, long legs, and a petite frame

My heart: beautiful, broken, bleeding

All of it on the bathroom floor in a bloodied pile.

I was down there. I lay beside her, my palm in her blood, and my face turned toward hers.

“Don’t. Don’t, Mac.” She tried to soothe me, pull me back. Her hands kept tracing down my face, trying to shake my memories. “Don’t go there. Don’t remember me that way. I was sick. I was sad. I was hurting, and I didn’t ask for help. I was sick, Mackenzie. I was sick. You can’t understand because I never told you.”

There were warnings. I knew there had been.

Her dried puke on the toilet.

Her exercising at midnight.

How she cried when she got an A- on a test. Her spending whole weekends in bed.

“You shut yourself off from us.”

“Yes.” She made sure I maintained eye contact with her. If I stared at her, I couldn’t see her the way she’d been the last time I saw her. “I was sick, Mackenzie. That’s the best I can tell you. It was horrible what I did. I can’t go back. I can’t make things right. I can’t . . .” She broke off, and I saw her crying.

Could ghosts tear up? Could she do that, whatever she was?

She sniffled, shaking her head briskly to clear the tears. “I never talked. I never said what was going on with me, but you have to. You have to talk. You have to talk about me. You can’t keep yourself bottled up and suppressed. Nothing good will happen then. I know you don’t want to feel the grief. I know you don’t want to let me go, but you have to. You will make yourself sick like I was. I don’t want you here. You got it? I don’t want you with me. Not you. This is mine to carry. Not yours. I want to watch you live a long life. I want to see you married. I want to see my little nephews and nieces. I want to see what my children would’ve looked like—”