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My brother hates me, he hates me. He can't accept having a sister with a mental illness. He often deliberately provokes me to have an episode in front of others. Making me look ugly. The most common phrase he says is: "Haylen, I really wish you were dead from your illness." Later, I really died. But he went crazy. Every day stubbornly imitating my ugly appearance when I have an episode. Begging me to appear in his dreams for a glance.

Protagonist

: Caitlin Nash, Shane Nash

Chapter 1 1

Chapter 1

My brother despised me, hated me.

He couldn't accept having a sister with a mental illness.

He often deliberately provoked me into having an episode in front of others, humiliating me.

The phrase he most frequently uttered was, "Caitlin, I really wish you would have an episode and die."

Later, I actually died.

But he went mad.

Every day, he stubbornly mimicked my shameful outbursts, pleading for me to appear in his dreams, even for a moment.

I died on the night of my brother's birthday. My body was cruelly dismembered and thrown into several bags, which were then discarded in different trash bins. For some reason, my soul did not dissipate. In a daze, I drifted back home again.

The house was brightly lit, and everyone was celebrating my brother's birthday. Shane, my brother, was frowning, holding a glass of wine, lost in thought. One of his friends spoke up.

"Shane, where's that crazy sister of yours? Call her out to join us!"

Shane clicked his tongue and downed his drink in one gulp. "She's not home. Who knows where she died."

"What a pity, one less person to mess with. She was always the most enthusiastic about your affairs. It's strange she hasn't come back today. Could something have happened to her?"

Shane sneered. "Something happened? What could possibly happen? It would be best if she died out there. The Nash family doesn't need a crazy person."

Strange, can you still feel heartache after death? Although I knew my brother wished for my death, hearing it again made my heart ache with a thousand tiny stabs.

Brother, as you wished. I really did die. I died on your birthday. Do you think my death is the best birthday gift you could ever receive?

Shane picked up his wine and walked to the balcony, repeatedly checking his phone, seemingly waiting for someone to message him. Ten minutes later, he unlocked his phone and, to my surprise, opened our chat history. It was filled with messages I had sent him, all unanswered.

"Happy Birthday, brother!"

"Today, I'll give you the gift you always wanted."

He hadn't replied. I hadn't sent any more messages either because I was already dead...

I leaned in closer to read the screen, carefully going through our chat history, and let out a self-mocking laugh. Shane's lips were tightly pressed together. After a long hesitation, he typed a few words on the screen.

"Caitlin, are you dead out there? Why aren't you back yet?"

In the past, I would always reply to my brother's messages instantly. This time, fifteen minutes had passed, and he still hadn't received a reply from me. Shane gritted his teeth loudly and smashed his glass with force.

"If you don't come back, just die out there."

I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked at the moonlight outside. It was so cold.

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Eleven years. I dedicated them all to Wesley Scott, sacrificing my architect dreams to support his political ambitions. After a decade of being his unassuming small-town Texas girl, he finally proposed, not out of love, I suspected, but for his political image. Then, an anonymous email arrived with a photo: Wesley and his childhood friend, Gabrielle, smiling, holding a deed to a luxury Austin condo, purchased jointly under their names. Beneath it, Gabrielle' s chilling message: "Coming home for good." Wesley dismissed it as "just a favor," his casual use of "Gabby" a slap in the face. But the next day, the building manager casually confirmed Gabrielle was the primary owner, and I, his fiancée, was merely "the friend," a temporary guest. That night, at Gabrielle's welcome dinner, Wesley sat beside her, radiating ownership, as everyone toasted them as "the perfect couple." Then, a friend goaded them into a kiss, and Wesley, playing to the crowd, gave Gabrielle a soft, lingering kiss, a gesture of intimacy he never showed me. All eyes turned to me, expecting tears, a scene, but I just smiled. "If Gabrielle wants him," I said, my voice clear and calm, "she can have him." He dragged me out, furious, but a later anonymous message, a screenshot of their secret Instagram post-"To our future!" and his reply, "Whatever you want, you get. Always"-extinguished any lingering hope. It was the same day he'd asked me to move in, calling it "our first real step." His betrayal culminated when a mob of HOA women, spurred by Gabrielle, publicly assaulted me at the condo, and Wesley stood by, calculating the optics of defending me. I collapsed, humiliated, only to later see his reply on the HOA Facebook chat, throwing me under the bus: "The owner on the deed is the one who matters." He had confirmed I was nothing, a squatter to his entire world. When he abandoned me in the hospital for Gabrielle's fake allergic reaction, I knew. It was over. Three days later, at our lavish engagement party, instead of our romantic slideshow, I played the video of their kiss, the condo deed, and his damning words on the jumbo screens. His political career ignited in a glorious fireball. "Why, Wesley?" I told him calmly when he screamed down the phone. "I was just making way for the real couple. After all, the owner on the deed is the one who matters." I hung up and blocked him, and everyone from that life. I was free to build my own.

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