I know that she believes if she just keeps looking, the ache won’t catch up.
The image moves again. And there she is. ThereIam. She is a figure of motionless grief at a kitchen table made for two but with a single chair. She’s bent over a glowing screen, face caught in the silent scream of editing.
And then she breaks.
Flames erupt as she slams her fists against the table.The fire surges with her, violent and white-hot, reacting to her pain like it’s its own.
Her voice erupts from the flames, raw and ragged and undeniably mine. “Not good enough. Not good enough. You arenot enough.”
The words tear through me. Hot tears sting my eyes as I press both hands to my heart like I can guard myself from them. Like they haven’t already carved themselves into the softest parts of me. The ache in my chest rises until I’m choking on it, until I want to turn away. But I can’t. I won’t.
This is me. This is what I’ve hidden from everyone. Even myself.
The flames ease, and in the center of the fire, she starts again.
She rebuilds the smile. Reapplies the mask. Smooths her clothes. Lifts her chin. Again and again.
Each time it takes longer.
Each time it costs more.
The burning light behind her eyes fades with every reset. And still, she keeps going. Because she believes—becauseIbelieve—that if I let go even for a moment, if I breathe too deeply, if I let the pain rise, let the truth spill that the personality I’ve created, the version of myself I’ve pretended is real might collapse.
And who will I be without it?
So she keeps performing the part.Ikeep performing the part, hoping that eventually I’ll become it.
But I haven’t.
And witnessing her try—witnessingmetry—is the most painful thing I’ve ever seen.
The Tower knows, and its fire draws that collapse too.
My mirror image flickers. Her silhouette splinters. Ash blooms from her skin. It spreads like ink dropped in water. Soft at first. Then unstoppable.
She turns to dust. Scatters. Rains down in silent spirals over me, over Declan, over the altar fire that spoke her truth. That burned her down.
The flames churn. The fire splits. And the vision twists again.
Declan sits behind a sleek desk carved from flame, phone pressed to his ear. Behind him, a man materializes from the heat. He’s older than Declan, his expression severe, face wrinkled, but the cut of their jaws, the smoky, coal-black eyes are the same. Declan’s father. Numbers flicker in the flames around them—profits, projections, check marks stacked like logs waiting to be tossed onto his pyre of success.
A young woman stands in the doorway, etched in firelight, a small suitcase clutched at her side. She waits for Declan to see her, to choose her. Finally, he notices. His flaming face brightens, and he reaches to set the phone down and rise. The older man’s hand clamps onto his shoulder. The smile slides from Declan’s face. He stays seated, takes another call, seals another deal, ticks another box. She exhales the last breath she’ll give him and walks out. The door clicks shut.
Declan’s fiery image shudders, then splits. It fractures him into two separate beings. The other Declan—drawn in red, flickering heat, palms ashy white with climber’s chalk—rushes to the doorway.
The chalk-handed Declan grabs for the woman, but it’s too late. He’s too late.
The fire moves, and the vision shifts.
Suit-clad Declan stands before a polished boardroom table of flame, ringed by specters of smoke. They nod and twitch like hungry things while Declan’s father lurks in the shadows. His father moves in the smoky black, and a thin whip of fire flicks out from his hand. The flaming leash snaps through the air and coils around his son’s throat. Declan paws at his neck, but the flames only race down his arms, through his body, consuming him. From the shadows, the burning coals that are his father smile.
Across the room, the chalk-handed version watches, rages, burns. Anger clings to him in searing red flame as he paces. His fists clench. His shoulders shake.
“This deal will destroy everything it touches,” he roars. “We’ll win on paper and lose everything that matters.”
The leash tightens, and the suited Declan crosses the burning floor in three precise steps. His eyes are empty, and his mouth wears his father’s smile as he seizes the screaming, pleading version of himself by the throat.
“You were made for a purpose,” he hisses, each word a hot snap. “You will see it through.”
