Extinguished

Elle had always been ordinary.

Not plain, not boring, just average. She wore muted colors, maintained a steady job at a small bookstore, and lived alone in an unassuming apartment overlooking an alleyway cluttered with forgotten bicycles and rusted trash bins. Her cat, a sleepy gray tabby named Marlowe, was her only regular companion.

Elle liked her quiet life. But even more, she liked observing people whose lives shimmered brighter than hers.

People like Lia.

Lia was everything Elle wasn't—charismatic, charming, dazzling. She appeared one rainy evening at the bookstore, her laughter ringing like bells, her coat shimmering with droplets that Elle imagined might taste like stardust. Her presence changed the air. Customers looked up when she entered. Elle's spine straightened. Her heartbeat picked up.

Over weeks, Lia drew Elle into her orbit, stopping by to chat or browse, pulling stories from shelves that Elle had long overlooked. They talked about literature, music, travel. Lia had stories that stretched across cities Elle had only dreamed of. Elle found herself waiting anxiously for Lia’s visits, drawn to the warmth and glow that Lia effortlessly exuded.

One Sunday, they shared coffee across the street from the bookstore. Lia talked about her childhood in Vienna, her years in a traveling performance troupe, and the scar near her ankle she got sneaking into a cathedral at night. Elle said little, but her silence was never awkward—Lia filled the space with wonder.

But as time passed, Elle noticed Lia’s attention drifting, scattering like autumn leaves. The bookstore visits grew shorter, their conversations clipped, replaced by fleeting waves and hollow smiles. Elle saw Lia walking the streets with new friends, brighter and louder ones who moved through life like it owed them everything.

Elle’s longing twisted into resentment. She reread texts, tried different tones of voice, different outfits. Still, Lia slipped away.

Late one evening, Elle caught a glimpse of Lia through her window, laughing uproariously at some inside joke shared with strangers under the glow of a streetlamp. The pain was sharp, piercing, raw. Marlowe pressed against her ankle, purring.

Something snapped inside Elle. She wouldn’t be discarded like an old bookmark.

Driven by envy, Elle began to weave herself subtly into Lia’s world. She joined the yoga class Lia frequented, the same coffee shop, even switched her social media profile to feature more art, more color. She studied Lia’s likes and dislikes, mimicked her mannerisms until the line between them blurred.

Slowly, Elle began whispering doubts into Lia's friends' ears—little things at first, harmless remarks that gradually grew more potent, poisonous.

"You know, Lia never really appreciated your kindness," Elle murmured sympathetically to Nina, a soft-spoken ceramicist.

"Did Lia really say that about you?" she'd ask softly to Max, her voice catching as if she hated to repeat it.

She sent anonymous tips to a few of Lia’s acquaintances, stirring just enough confusion to fracture trust without revealing her hand. She tagged herself at events she knew Lia couldn’t attend. Sometimes she "accidentally" shared posts hinting that Lia had hurt people, always just vague enough to spark speculation but not confrontation.

One by one, Lia's friendships fractured. Nina became distant. Max stopped replying. Her laughter dulled; the glow Elle had once admired dimmed until Lia was left confused and alone. Her Instagram, once a tapestry of glittering nights and golden-hour selfies, turned into sporadic posts with vague captions and filtered sunsets.

Elle was there, of course, offering comfort, a listening ear—always supportive, always understanding. She brought soup on cold nights. She texted first. She picked books Lia once loved and placed them beside her tea.

"Thank goodness for you," Lia sobbed into Elle’s shoulder one evening. Elle smiled softly, the expression invisible to Lia, her eyes dark with quiet triumph.

They became closer again. Lia began to rely on Elle. But there was a difference now—a fragility in Lia, a silence in her stories. Elle filled the space, laughing just a little too loudly, shining just a little too brightly.

One evening, as they walked home from the bookstore, Lia stopped.

"Have I changed?" she asked. "Lately I feel... lost. Like I'm disappearing."

Elle reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Lia’s face.

"You’re still you," she said. "You just needed someone to see it."

Lia smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Months passed. Lia became smaller, quieter. Elle, meanwhile, bloomed—she wore brighter clothes, received compliments from bookstore patrons, and even led the shop’s poetry night. She spoke with flair, borrowed phrases Lia once used, gestures she once admired. The roles had shifted.

But the thing about living in someone else’s light is that it never truly becomes your own. Elle felt it—the hollow echo behind her triumph, the quiet dread in the pauses between laughter.

Marlowe started sleeping in Lia’s forgotten coat.

One day, Elle found a letter tucked between the pages of a book Lia had once recommended. It wasn’t addressed, but the handwriting was unmistakably Lia’s.

"I miss who I was before I felt like I had to be someone else. Before I doubted every smile, every word. If you find this, whoever you are—please don’t let someone else steal your light."

Elle stood in the bookstore aisle, the letter trembling in her hands. Her reflection in the shop window looked unfamiliar—not quite Lia, not quite herself.

She didn’t say anything to Lia. They still met for tea. They still talked. They even made plans for a weekend trip that never materialized. Everything continued as it had, like a record caught in a quiet skip.

But at night, when the shop lights dimmed and Marlowe curled on her lap, Elle sometimes reread the letter. And for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she had taken something from Lia or just lost something of her own.

Elle had always been ordinary.

But in Lia’s story, she had become the villain.

And in her own story—she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.

Outside, in the alley, a bicycle finally toppled in the wind. A hollow clatter echoed up the bricks. Elle didn’t move. She only stared out at the stars above the trash bins, wondering if any of them remembered who she used to be.