"Who am I?"

The middle aged couple who claimed to be my parents gaped at me when I uttered those three words. They exchanged worried glances, and communicated through vague facial expressions I couldn't decipher. When they shuffled out of the room, I could hear their muffled voices arguing behind the walls, but I couldn't make out what the hissed and whispered phrases meant.

"Sweetie, are you sure you don't remember anything?" the woman who I assumed to be my mother asked when the two of them returned.

I shook my head.

Another exchanged glance.

"Well, it's alright," my father spoke, "You're awake now and that's all that matters to us."

My mother squeezed my hand, forcing a smile, "We love you, Kayla."

"Kayla." I rolled my tongue over the name, tasting it, hoping it would trigger a memory. "Kayla."

"You'll remember eventually," my father assured me, "The doctors say it's only a matter of time."

I nodded reluctantly.

Three days later, I was released from the prison of chemical odors known as the hospital. My legs were a little wobbly, but I managed with my parents' help. They were nice people, I decided, but sometimes they seemed sad and distant. I spent the drive home watching the roads and buildings whizz by through the window.

The house was clean and organized. My room was spacious and I liked the pink wallpaper. A cluster of DVDs crowded the desk and cute stuffed animals sat neatly on the bed. It was all very warm and welcoming, and yet I couldn't help but feel that something was missing. It was hard to pinpoint what it was.

"Is everything alright?" my father stood at the door.

It wasn't the first time he had asked that. "Yeah," I replied.

"Do you, by any chance, recognize anything..." he trailed off, hope dangling at the edge of his voice.

I shook my head.

A mixture of relief and disappointment was evident on his face. He tried to cover it up by cracking a smile through his thick, tangled beard. It looked painful. I gave him a smile of my own before he left me alone with the stuffed animals.

Who am I?

My reflection held the image of a young female, with wavy brown hair that cloaked the throbbing scar on her head and green eyes that concealed all the memories I had yet to unlock.

I was her and she was me.

My skin was smooth and my nose was narrow. What truly defined me, though, could not be seen on the mirror. Other than my appearance, the shell before me did not reveal anything about me.

It's only a matter of time.

"My name is Kayla."

The foreign words dropped out of my mouth like lead, but I practiced the line several times until dinner. The three of us ate on the square-shaped kitchen table. My mother sat on my right, and my father on my left. I stared at the empty seat in front of me while I chewed my pasta. Apparently it was my favorite dish.

Towards the end of the meal, my parents exchanged another one of their famous glances before they placed their eating utensils down.

"Sweetie," my mother began, choosing her words carefully, "We know that this must be hard for you, and you've only recently recovered, but there's something you need to do."

"You're a model, Kayla," my father continued with pride, "You've been to fashion shows and you appear in magazines. We don't want to pressure you, but a really important photo shoot is coming up, and I'm sure you wouldn't have wanted to miss it."

Their expressions were hopeful. I didn't want to disappoint them, so I said enthusiastically, "Yeah, sure, I'm looking forward to it."

"That's my girl," my father patted me on the back.

"How did I lose my memories?" I blurted.

"It was just an accident, sweetie," my mother said quickly, "You don't have to worry about it."

***

"This way, Kayla, straighten your shoulders and smile!"

Another flash blinded me momentarily. I squinted at the camera man, Peter, with dislike. I managed to put up with his squeaky demands until, after several photos in different uncomfortable outfits, I snapped at him. The plump man yelped in fear and quickly stuffed his camera away when I had threatened to break it. Finally the first photo session after my recovery came to an end. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the next one.

I found a skinny, bespectacled boy waiting at our front porch when I arrived. He had short jet black hair stuffed underneath a red cap. He had been pacing back and forth, hands shoved into his pockets, until he spotted me. He froze in place and his grey eyes brimmed with tears.

"Hello." I said awkwardly.

The boy seemed too stunned, but when he recovered, he said, "Hey, uh, K-Kayla. I'm sorry, you're just – I mean, I'm just – I'm glad to, uh, see you again, that's all."

He rubbed his tears away, and spent a long time examining my face.

I blushed, "So, you're...?"

"Oh, right! Your mother told me. You can't remember, and I shouldn't... well, never mind that! Uh, I'm Keith. I live next door."

"We were friends?"

"Well, yeah you could say so."

"That's nice," I thought for a moment, and then asked, "Could you tell me more about myself?"

Keith showed me to an abandoned park, where we sat on the rusty swings and talked, gradually dissolving the uneasiness between us.

"I used to come here all the time with–" his voice cracked, "With you. I mean, before you lost your memories."

"Did I like you?"

Keith seemed taken aback. "As in loved me? Of course not, you have a boyfriend!"

"I do?"

"Yeah, a big guy named Trevor."

The swings creaked noisily.

"Did I choose to be a model?"

"I guess so."

"Did I enjoy it?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, "We weren't that close, really."

The swings groaned louder than ever.

"I have a feeling these swings aren't going to handle our weight anymore," Keith pointed out.

I laughed, "It would be funny, if we fell."

"Funny? It would hurt!"

"That's exactly why it would be funny!"

The swings resumed their ugly piece of music.

"I wish I could regain my memories."

"Ignorance is bliss," Keith said darkly.

"Not when I don't know a thing about myself," I complained, "I can't remember anything about me, or you, or my parents. I feel like I'm left out, like everyone knows something I don't."

"You're lucky, Kayla. I'd do anything to be in your place."

I frowned, "Why?"

Only the swings bothered to reply.

***

Who am I?

I spent the next week or so banging my head against the wall. I needed a memory to hold on to, besides the insignificant flashbacks I had of my childhood. Knowing my name and occupation wasn't enough. I needed to know the truth, and if the people in my life weren't planning on providing me with the information I wanted, I was going to figure it out on my own.

Everyone hides secrets.

Maybe I did, too.

One morning, once I made sure both of my parents had left the house, I searched my bedroom thoroughly. I couldn't find a diary or journal of any sort but there was a busted camera in the closet. I kept the memory card safe in my pocket until I found a laptop in one of the drawers.

Unfortunately, it required a password. On the bright side, though, there was a 'hint' button. When I passed the curser over it, a yellow box appeared that read 'It's a special date'. I figured it was probably my birthday. I racked my brain and, to my surprise, the date popped out like it had been waiting there all along.

I immediately punched the code in, but no matter how differently I rearranged the numbers, it just didn't work. I slumped back on the beanbag and squeezed my brain a little harder. What could that special date possibly be? If it wasn't my birthday, it could be someone else's. Keith said that I had a boyfriend named Trevor.

That could be it.

I ventured to Keith's house and barged into his room once his mother let me in.

"Do you know when Trevor's birthday is?"

"Good morning to you too," he replied, yawning, "I don't stalk your boyfriend, so, no, I don't."

"Well, do you know where he lives?"

"Like I said, I don't stalk him!"

"I need to see him, where can I find him?"

Keith sighed in defeat, "He works at this restaurant nearby."

***

"It's been a while, babe," Trevor said, "How's it going?"

"I've been doing great. Now there's something I wanted to ask you about–"

Trevor was a handsome and well-built guy, but he wasn't very talkative – or at least not with his girlfriend. Before I got the chance to voice my question, he planted several harsh smooches on my neck. Poor Keith stood awkwardly in the background, as if hoping to become one with the wall. Trevor resumed smooching violently, to the point that I had to wriggle for freedom, but his arms were too strong.

"Stop it!" I yelled with disgust.

He was too busy slurping to hear me.

"L-L-Leave her alone," Keith stuttered.

Finally Trevor let go of me and loomed menacingly over the shorter boy. Keith looked pale, sweaty, and afraid. His hands were shaking slightly, and his eyes darted around the restaurant. The people who were eating were now starting to stare. Keith tugged his red cap down to cover his similarly colored face.

"What did you say?"

Keith gulped nervously, wiping his shaking palms on his shirt, and squeaked, "Nothing much."

He darted to the washroom. I bolted after him before Trevor could grab me again. I found Keith retching into the toilet. His cap was lying on the ground like a deflated balloon. I rubbed his back and asked if he was alright, even though he clearly wasn't.

"You're not supposed to be in the men's bathroom," he hurled once more, "I'm sorry, I'm weak."

"I don't blame you, Trevor is one scary dude."

"It's not just about Trevor," he confessed, "It's about all those people, all those eyes goggling at us. My body automatically ditches me in situations like that, and it's really hard to do normal things with too many people around. I can't speak, I can't be myself. The very thought of a packed public place sickens me."

I examined his face as he talked and ran his fingers through his hair. His clean-shaven chin bobbed up and down. His eyes gleamed, reflecting his frustration as well as his determination and yearning for self-improvement. Or maybe that was just the dim sunlight seeping through the narrow window. Either way, he fascinated me.

Memories or no memories, feelings aren't supposed to change, are they?

"Keith, when's your birthday?"

***

I accessed the laptop as soon as I entered the new password I acquired. The desktop was crammed with folders upon folders of school assignments and projects. Behind them, the wallpaper was a picture of a pelican, which made me wonder if used to go bird watching.

I inserted the camera's memory card. Mostly it contained images of the nature, me with Trevor, and me at various photo shoots and fashion events. At some point I stumbled upon a blurry picture.

What I saw took my breath away.

There was two of me.

***

I confronted my parents at dinner.

"I have a sister," I deadpanned.

It was more of a statement than a question. I didn't want to give my parents a chance to deny the truth. I watched them warily as they fiddled nervously with their food and exchanged more glances than ever. The air was clogged with the tension. My mother put her fork down.

"Do you remember... everything?" she asked slowly.

I shook my head.

"The doctors say it's best if you remember at your own pace–"

"I want to know," I said through gritted teeth, "Look, it's no big secret anymore, and since I already know about her now, I can't relax until I understand why she isn't eating dinner with us right now, or why you haven't even bothered to mention her in the first place."

Ignorance is bliss.

Keith's words echoed in my head. I ignored them, though, and glared at both of my parents, hoping that they could see my resolve. In the end, they caved in to my stubbornness.

"You had an identical twin," my father informed me, his voice quivering, "Her name was Ashley. You two had completely different personalities, in fact, you were opposites. You never had the same hobbies or interests, not even the same friends. Your sister she," he took a deep breath, "she passed away, in a car accident. You were with her, at the time, but you only injured your head."

By then my mother was sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Kayla, that we kept you in the dark for so long," my father continued, squeezing his wife's hand, "Ashley's bed and clothes are in the basement, if you're wondering. I know what this looks like, but we weren't trying to erase her existence. It's just that, we thought it was best if you remembered her on your own. I'm sorry."

I gazed at the empty seat in front of me, the fourth side of the square-shaped kitchen table, where Ashley was supposed to be sitting. It must have been painful for my parents, living with the spitting image of their dead daughter.

A single tear slid down my cheek.

"Thank you for telling me."

***

"I'm sorry I didn't tell about her before. Your mother told me not to," Keith plopped down on the shotgun seat and strapped the belt, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

I nodded firmly and turned the key. The car growled in response. I gripped the steering wheel firmly and advanced, gradually gaining pace. I remembered only scraps of the truth, which weren't very hard to put together. There was still something out of place, though. The puzzle was almost clear. The final piece that I had grasped just wasn't right.

It was dented.

It just didn't fit in.

It didn't complete the image.

"I remember I was driving her to the cinema before one of my photo shoots," I started recalling, "but she never got to see that movie."

Keith frowned, but didn't say anything.

I continued, "There was a large truck and then – that's it. That's the street where the accident occurred, it looks awfully familiar."

"Maybe you should forget about this, Kayla," Keith offered, "I mean, stop thinking about the accident for a moment and try remembering more about you, as a person."

I parked on the side of the road across the cinema and killed the engine. I wandered into Keith's cozy eyes, which were peaking curiously from behind his glasses.

"I don't remember much about me," I admitted, "but I've been remembering more about you in the past few days. Your favorite color is green, just like my eyes. You've hated croutons ever since you choked on them when you were eight. You're allergic to peanut butter, and you like crushing ice with your teeth. You always wear that cap when you go out and I'm one of the very few people who get to lock eyes with you."

The current of phrases was hard to stop.

"You have social anxiety, but that doesn't define you. It's your gentle smile, your complex thoughts, and your sincere empathy. What people observe of you is nothing but a cocoon. They haven't had the privilege of glimpsing the multicolored butterfly within you. I know for a fact that you'll toss everything in your arms to pick up a precious person's dropped pencil. That's what makes you, you."

The words tumbled out of my mouth.

"Your name is Keith, and I love you."

Keith gasped and whispered, "Ashley?"

The image was complete.

It all made sense.

Later, when I would tell my parents who I am, they might deny the truth at first, partly because they might have wanted me to be Kayla, the outgoing girl, and partly due to the shameful guilt of not being able to distinguish their own daughter. Once they have accepted the truth, though, they would be torn between mourning and rejoicing.

Their formerly dead daughter came back to life, only to yank the one they believed to be alive into the grave in her stead. They would have to change the tombstone and explain the situation to outsiders – how the mischievous twins had swapped clothes for a change, decided to play one another's roles for a day.

We never imagined that our act would extend for so long.

Maybe in the future it would be a tale to tell, an old story to laugh about. ("Remember, sweetie, when we mistook you for Kayla?" my mother would say, "We thought you were dead, how silly of us!")

Wouldn't it easier for me to believe that I was dead and not Kayla? Wouldn't it be easier if I had continued living without questioning or attempting to figure out who I really was?

It would certainly be easier, but it wouldn't be right.

I'd never know why I survived. I'd just have to cope with it.

All that, though, would be in the future. In that present moment, when the dust was swept and the truth was revealed, I embraced Keith as he wrapped his arms around me protectively. He sobbed and murmured my real name over and over again.

I uttered my name as well.

It tasted bittersweet as it slinked out from between my lips.

Although it was but a label, it sounded just right.