My graduation day was supposed to be the moment I felt seen. The stadium gleamed under the May sunlight, a blur of navy gowns and proud families. When they called my name—“Camila Elaine Reed, Master of Arts in Data Analytics”—I looked up instinctively, scanning the front rows. The “Reserved for Family” section stared back at me, empty and cold in the light.

I forced a smile for the photo, gripping my diploma too tightly. Laughter bubbled up around me like confetti. I stood there alone, beside a stranger’s family taking pictures, my smile shrinking with each click of the camera.

Truth be told, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My parents had skipped my college graduation too. There was always a reason—always something smaller, shinier, that took priority. I spent my teenage years trying to win their love, like it was a scholarship—working two jobs, sending money home, saying yes to every request.

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Lossless

When I was 16, I wore a brown Starbucks apron at dawn. Mom used to text me: “Thanks, honey. Avery needs piano lessons.” Or: “She has a field trip, just a little extra.” The first time she said, “You’re our pride,” I believed her. I thought love sounded like appreciation. Now I know it sounded like obligation.

When I started graduate school, I told myself this degree would change everything. That if I accomplished enough, maybe she’d see me—not as the backup plan, not as the steady paycheck disguised as a daughter—but as her equal.

May be an image of studying, standing, hallway and text

Three days after the ceremony, when the cap and gown were still hanging by the door, I got a message: “Do I need 2,100 for your sister’s sweet 16?” No congratulations, no curiosity about how I did. Just numbers. A deadline. And that same silent expectation.

I stared at the message for a long time. And that was the moment something inside me—something small, tired, and long ignored—finally stirred.

I opened my banking app, saw my savings—barely 3,000—and felt something harden inside me. I typed “1 dollar,” added a note: “Congratulations,” and hit send. For a long minute, I just sat there, the word “Sent” glowing on the screen.

Then I opened the drawer by the front door, took out the spare key my mother insisted on keeping for emergencies, and tossed it in the trash. That night, I called a locksmith. The new lock clicked into place, solid and permanent. It was the first boundary I’d ever built.

The next day, sunlight flooded my small apartment. I made coffee and, for the first time, I wasn’t bothered by the silence. It was mine. No one could come in. No one could ask for anything. Peace had a sound. This was it—until the knocking began. Firm. Rhythmic. Persistent.

I froze. It wasn’t my landlady; she always knocked first. When I looked through the peephole, two uniformed officers filled the hallway.

“Denver Police,” one said, calm and professional. “Ms. Reed?”

I opened the door, my heart racing. “Yes.”

The officers exchanged a quick glance before the taller one spoke.

“We received a report of a possible burglary at this address,” he said, flipping through a notebook. “A Ms. Reed stated that you denied her access to your property and that you may be withholding items that belong to her.”

My mind went blank.

“Robbery?” I managed to say. “This is my apartment. I paid for everything here.”

The second officer, younger, leaned in slightly, as if assessing not only my words but also my weariness.

“Can we come in?” he asked.

I nodded. They both entered, giving my small but tidy space a quick, professional glance. My boxes of books, my framed diploma still wrapped in plastic, my cheap coffee maker. Everything I had built myself.

The tall officer approached the window, raising an eyebrow.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“What?” I asked.

He gestured down toward the parking lot. A maroon minivan was awkwardly parked, its side door open. Inside, I could make out clear bags—and a figure moving.

The younger officer turned to me.

“Miss Reed… your mother said you left this morning in a state of distress, saying you were going to ‘disappear.’ She also said you left a worrying note.”

“That’s not true,” I replied, feeling a strange tingling at the back of my neck. “I didn’t leave a note.”

The officers exchanged another glance. Something in their expressions changed. They no longer seemed to be looking for a suspect, but rather protecting her from something I still didn’t understand.

“Camila?” the young man said in a different tone. “Your mother also mentioned that she was worried you were… losing your memory.”

They handed me a piece of paper. A crumpled sheet, supposedly found at my mother’s house.

I read it.

The handwriting was eerily similar to mine.

“I can’t take it anymore. I’m leaving. I don’t want to be here when you get back. I’m sorry.”

I froze.

“I didn’t write this. I haven’t been to your house in weeks. That’s… a forgery.”

The tall officer held my gaze for a long moment, studying every blink, every tiny tremor in my hands.

“Miss Reed,” he said finally. “I need you to come with us for a moment. There are some discrepancies in the report. It’s best to clear them up at the station.”

And then, there was another knock at the door.

But this time, it wasn’t the familiar tap of knuckles.

It was a dull, desperate knock.

The three of us turned at the same time.

“Who is it?” I began.

The young man cautiously opened the door.

Avery was there. My sister. Pale. Trembling. Her eyes red from crying.

“Camila…” she sobbed. “You have to come. Mom… Mom’s saying the strangest things. She says you never moved here. That this”—she gestured around the entire apartment with a trembling hand—“is hers. That you… that you don’t exist.”**

The world tilted in my face.

“What?” I whispered.

“He says you’re a fabrication,” Avery continued, frantically. “That he only had one daughter. That I’m the only one. That you’re… a phase. A copy. Something that ‘went away years ago.’”

The police officers were speechless.

So was I.

Avery desperately reached for my hand…but her gaze twisted as soon as I touched it, as if a chill ran through her.

“Camila…” she whispered. “Why… why are you so cold?”

The officers took a step back.

I took two steps forward without feeling my legs. My body was moving, yes, but the ground no longer responded the same way beneath my feet. As if it weren’t entirely mine.

“Avery,” I said.

I muttered, barely audible, “Of course I exist. I’m here.”

The apartment light flickered.

Just once.

But it was enough to make the police officers reach for their belts.

And then, the tall officer murmured something that pierced me deeper than any absence, any abandonment.

“Miss Reed… our body cameras aren’t picking up your face.”

Or my face.

Or my silhouette.

Or anything.

Just… empty space.

Behind me, slowly, the diploma—still wrapped in plastic—fell to the floor from its own weight.

And it sounded like a thud in an apartment where, suddenly, I understood that perhaps the only thing I’d never had… was a real place to call myself.