Shadows of Solitude

I always thought love was quiet.

It wasn’t supposed to be loud like fireworks or overwhelming like waves crashing against rocks. It was the gentle kind—the warmth of a mug in your hands on a rainy morning, or the silence between two people who understand each other without speaking.

That’s what I thought I had with William.

Until I saw the headline.

> *“CEO William Edward Presents International Supermodel Ellen Quincy with \$3.2M Diamond Set — Are They Close to Tying the Knot?”*

My breath stopped. Not because of who he was with, but because of how familiar she looked. It was like staring at my own reflection — only glossier, more polished. Her eyes were the same storm-gray as mine. The same tilt to her chin. The same dimple on the left side when she smiled.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The way he always hesitated before saying “I love you.” The wedding vows — when he looked at me, swallowed hard, and said, *“Ellen… I mean Ella… you’re finally mine.”*

I laughed then, nervously, thinking it was wedding-day nerves. But I remembered. I remembered how cold my spine had gone. How it echoed in my chest long after the guests stopped clapping.

Now I knew. I wasn’t Ella, the woman he chose.

I was Ellen, the woman he lost.

Or at least, a copy good enough to replace her.

I watched the video attached to the article. He was smiling. The same smile I used to think was just for me. He placed the necklace around Ellen’s neck like he’d done it a hundred times in his head. And she leaned in like it was natural, like no one else had ever stood in that space.

I felt sick.

He wasn’t even hiding it.

Not anymore.

---

When he came home that night, I didn’t say anything. I had dinner on the table. His favorite—grilled salmon with lemon rice. The candles were lit. A cruel part of me wanted to see if he’d notice the effort. If any part of him still recognized me as someone worth remembering.

He did notice.

But not for the reason I wanted.

He looked tired, as if the weight of a truth he’d carried too long was finally sliding down his spine.

“Ella,” he said, putting down his briefcase, “we need to talk.”

My hands froze around the plate.

He sat down across from me. No kiss. No small talk. Just the sound of paper sliding across the table. Legal paper. White, sharp-edged, and final.

“I think… we should end this,” he said.

I didn’t speak. Not because I didn’t have words—but because I knew if I opened my mouth, I would scream.

He continued. “I thought I could move on. That being with someone who… reminded me of her would help. But I was wrong. She’s back. And I realized I never really stopped loving her.”

I flinched.

“Ella,” he added, almost apologetic, “You’ve been good to me. You really have. But you were never—”

“Her,” I finished, voice barely a whisper.

He looked at me then, and to his credit, he had the decency to look ashamed.

I stared at the woman across from him. She wasn’t me. She never had been. But he’d dressed me in her memories. Taught me to love in her language. Built a life with me on the ashes of a life he’d buried too soon.

“I was just a placeholder,” I said flatly. “A substitute.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, but it felt hollow. “I thought—”

“You thought I’d be close enough.”

Silence.

In the distance, I could hear the soft hum of city life through the windows. The world kept moving. But mine had stopped.

He stood. “I’ll be staying at the penthouse for a few nights. Take your time with the papers.”

As he walked away, I remembered the night he first kissed me. We were standing under the rain, both of us laughing like teenagers, soaked through but alive. He cupped my face and said, *“I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”*

Now I knew.

He hadn’t been looking for me.

He’d been looking for her.

---

I didn’t cry that night.

Tears would have made it feel real. Instead, I sat on the cold floor of our apartment, staring at a woman in the reflection of the darkened window — one who looked like Ellen, sounded like Ellen, and loved a man who never saw her as anything but a second chance.

But I wasn’t going to beg. I wasn’t going to fight for space in a story I was never meant to be in.

Because I may have been a substitute to him — but to myself, I was finally becoming the main character.

And this time, the ending would be mine to write.