My mother once told me that after my older brother was born, they were hoping to have a girl. When my mother was pregnant with me, they went as far as coming up with a name for the child they thought she would be. Her name was Laurel Lynette.
At first I thought the idea was weird and vaguely disturbing, a female version of me from an alternate life or some other reality. Later I thought of her as the little girl inside me, some component of who I am. Maybe she was why I was always a feminist or liked the color pink.
Now I am starting to think that she is actually me. That we are the same. Or that I am becoming her.