I stand by the window, staring out at the endless lawn. It’s neat, perfect. Just like everything in this house is supposed to be. My hand rests against the cold glass, and I wonder how long it would take for the silence to take me over, for the house to finally stop breathing. I wish I could disappear. But the mirrors won’t let me. They never do. I turn away, feeling the skin shift beneath me, uncomfortable. My body feels like a cage. Thin, sharp, with ribs too prominent, hips too narrow, skin too tight. I should feel something. I should feel the softness of my curves, the fullness of my body, but it’s gone. Vanished. I don’t remember the last time I was whole. I don’t remember the last time I looked in a mirror and saw someone who wasn’t blurred. I hear Jay’s footsteps down the hallway. His presence is always here—silent, overwhelming. It feels like he’s been in this house longer than I have. Like he owns the place. Like he owns me. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, watching me, his eyes too distant to see me. “I need you to go with me later,” he says, his voice soft but hollow. Like he’s talking to someone else. Someone who isn’t me. “Where?” I ask, though I already know the answer. He’s always going somewhere. Always busy. Always with someone else. Never noticing when I’m slipping, when I’m vanishing. “To the meeting. You can wear that dress. The one with the lace.” He says it like I’m still that girl. The one who wears dresses, who smiles for the camera. The one who stands by his side and doesn’t ask questions. The perfect wife. But I’m not her anymore. I’m not anyone. “Sure,” I say, because that’s what he wants to hear. It’s easier than saying nothing. Easier than saying I don’t want to go. Easier than saying I don’t want to be anything at all. He doesn’t answer. He just nods and walks away, leaving me standing there alone again. Alone even when he’s in the room with me. Always. The mirrors are everywhere. They’re in the dining room, the hallway, the bathroom, the corners of the house. They’re a reminder of how little I am, how empty I’ve become. I walk past one. I can’t avoid it. The reflection pulls me in. I see my face, my hollow eyes, my body. I try to remember the girl who was whole. The girl who smiled because she wanted to, not because it was expected. But I can’t. She’s gone. All that’s left is this fragile shell. I press my hand against the glass, feeling the cold seep into my skin. It’s too much. Too much. I won’t eat today. I won’t eat tomorrow. The thought of food makes me sick. It’s never enough anyway. No matter how much I eat, I’ll never be enough. I don’t need food. I don’t need anything. I just need to keep going. Keep pretending. Keep existing. I hear Jay again, muffled from down the hall. He’s on the phone, always on the phone, always somewhere else. Never with me. I try not to listen, but his words leak through the walls. “I need you to handle this,” he says, his voice sharp, irritated. “I need her to look good tonight. Don’t mess it up.” I don’t need to be there. I don’t need to smile for him. But I will. I’ll do it because it’s the only thing I can do. I go to the wardrobe and pull out the dress he mentioned. Lace. Delicate. Fragile. Just like everything in this house. I slip it on, feeling it brush against my skin. I feel like I’m slipping out of myself, like the more I wear it, the more I disappear. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll wear it. For Jay. For the cameras. For the world that will look at me and say, “She’s perfect.” But I know the truth. I’m not perfect. I’m nothing.

The night comes faster than I expect. The house is filled with people, strangers, faces I don’t know, faces I don’t care to know. They all come for him. Not for me. For Jay. The man who built this empire. And I am nothing but a shadow beside him.

The lights are bright. The music too loud. Glasses clink. Conversations murmur. Jay stands beside me, I hear him mutter a silent “you're mine” in my ear, his hand on my lower back. But I can feel the distance between us. It’s like there’s a wall growing higher between us, and I can’t see him anymore. He’s looking at something else. Someone else. Talking, laughing. But his eyes never meet mine. I saw my mother for the first time in years. She wraps her arms around me, her embrace too tight, too eager, like she’s trying to make up for lost time. She tells me I look beautiful, her words thick with something false, commenting on how skinny I look. But I know she’s lying. Every day, the mirrors whisper the truth — a voice I can't ignore, a truth too heavy to hide. I stand there, smiling the same smile I’ve been practicing for years. The perfect, empty smile. I am an accessory. I don’t belong here. But I have to be. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror across the room. For a moment, I feel like I’m not there, like I’m outside of myself, watching someone who isn’t me. I can see my ribs through the lace of the dress. The hollowness in my face. The emptiness in my eyes. But they don’t see it. None of them see it. Jay doesn’t see it. His hand is still on my waist, but it’s not for me. It’s for show. I try to ignore the emptiness, the ache that settles deep in my chest. The ache that says I am nothing.