The city of shadows

The city was supposed to be a fresh start. At least, that’s what my parents told themselves when they packed up our lives and left behind the quiet streets where Layla had disappeared.

But I knew better. You can’t leave ghosts behind just by changing your address.

The new apartment smelled of paint and dust. The walls were bare, too white, too clean. I stood by the window, staring out at a skyline that should have felt exciting, but all I felt was the same heaviness that had followed me since that day.

And then her voice, soft and familiar, brushed against me like a secret. They really think moving will change you. Pathetic.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. She already knew my thoughts before I did.

At school, the other kids treated me like a puzzle they weren’t sure how to solve. I was polite enough, quiet, but there was something about me that unsettled them. Maybe it was the way my eyes darted to corners, as if someone stood just out of sight. Maybe it was the way I snapped when I felt cornered.

It didn’t take long for the first fight to break out. A boy teased me about my accent, about how I looked lost in the hallways. The kind of teasing most kids would brush off. But Layla hissed in my ear: Don’t let him laugh at you. Make him stop.

The next thing I remember clearly is the look on his face — blood at his lip, fear widening his eyes — as teachers dragged me away. I barely heard their scolding. All I heard was Layla’s laughter, bright and sharp.

That’s my girl, she whispered. Finally standing up for yourself.

At home, my parents grew quieter with me. My father kept his distance, throwing himself into work. My mother tried — she really did — but even she flinched sometimes when I met her eyes for too long. They never said it aloud, but I could see it in the way they avoided me: they were afraid.

And that fear only pushed me closer to Layla.

When the world outside turned hostile, she was the one who stayed. The one who whispered to me in the dark when I couldn’t sleep. The one who told me I was stronger than everyone else.

But her love came with a cost.

“Do it,” she would say. “Show them what happens if they try to control you.”

Sometimes it was small — slamming a door, breaking a glass, snapping at classmates. But other times… it wasn’t. I once cornered a stray cat in the alley behind our building, heart pounding, stone heavy in my hand. I told myself I wouldn’t, that I couldn’t. But Layla’s voice pressed harder.

Don’t be weak. You’re mine. Do it.

And I did.

The rush afterward was dizzying. Terrifying. Addictive.

I told myself I hated it. I told myself it wasn’t me. But each time, it became harder to separate my thoughts from hers. Harder to know where Amira ended and Layla began.

Years passed in that city, but nothing really changed. I smiled when I had to, pretended to be normal, but inside I was splitting down the middle. To the world, I was a restless, cold teenager with a temper she couldn’t control.

But the truth was darker.

The truth was that Layla wasn’t gone. She was alive in me. And every decision I made — every fight, every fire, every cruel act — felt less like a choice and more like her hand guiding mine.

And deep down, I knew: the more I listened, the louder she would grow.

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