Julie Chan Is Dead

by Liann Zhang

One thing needs to be made clear: I did not kill my twin sister.

Being a young woman is already like existing in the seventh circle of hell.

The state had separated us before we learned to grieve, since the couple that fast-tracked Chloe’s adoption only wanted one kid. I was sent to our aunt, a penny-pinching, foul-mouthed Cantonese woman who uses old Cheeto bags as folders for her tax returns, while my twin was adopted by an affluent white couple in New York City, legally rebranding herself a Van Huusen.

I’m addicted to the way I grow hateful. Crave how it fills me with vitriol. Being angry and envious is better than being empty.

Recognizing problems is pointless when you have little motivation to fix them. And finding motivation is impossible when the mere idea of existing feels like a punishment.

Social media is the biggest thief of time but it’s also an impossibly addictive form of escape.

I cry, not for Chloe’s death. I cry for my loss. Grief for that person I could have been.

It’s easy to forget that genuine good can come from our interconnectedness. It’s there for people who need it. If you’re lucky, it can open up the world.

I start wondering if cardio classes are the elite’s answer to self-harm.

Is this what it feels like to be an addict? If so, I think I might be addicted to the refreshing animation on Instagram. The sound of notifications. The sight of views going up. The support of my Chloe Crew. The rush of compliments and praise at my fingertips. I’m itching for it—the fix of social media. Without it, I’m empty, a void. An iPad kid without her iPad.

“I’ll never be applauded for mediocrity because I’m not a stereotypically beautiful white girl.”