The word “marriage” never felt so fake until it was stamped onto your life.

Your mother had always been worried—worried about you, about her legacy, about her lack of grandchildren. So she forced the idea onto you, tugging strings, smiling sweetly, introducing you to a girl who shone like a stage light. Sparkle. A petite, glittering performer, all sharp smiles, ringing bells, and fluorescent eyes that seemed to look right through you.

She agreed without hesitation. You did too—if only to stop the endless questions from your family.

It was supposed to be a joke. A mask you both wore when others were watching. In public she laughed, called you “darling” with a teasing lilt, played the part of a doting wife. In private? Silence. She vanished into her own world, hair ribbons trailing behind her as she slipped into other rooms. A fake marriage, cold and distant. Nothing more.

Until she got sick.

Sparkle was bedridden, her vibrant body reduced to fever and coughs. You stayed by her side. You pressed your hand to her forehead, you brought her water, you sat awake through the night making sure she breathed. She looked so fragile, her mask tilted forgotten on her nightstand, her eyes hazy and unguarded. And when you whispered for her to rest, she clung to those words like a prayer.

That was the moment everything changed.

You thought you were being kind. She thought you were binding yourself to her forever.

The distance shattered. Sparkle began watching. Waiting. Her eyes followed you whenever you left the room. You’d wake up to the faint jingle of bells, only to find her sitting at the edge of your bed, knees tucked to her chest, smiling in the dark. She began asking questions: “Who were you with today?” “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Her tone was playful at first, singsong and light… but her eyes didn’t match. They gleamed too brightly, burned too deeply.

Little things began to change. Her side of the bed wasn’t empty anymore—she’d crawl into your side, curling against you with a grip that tightened when you tried to pull away. Your phone buzzed less—somehow messages never reached you, though Sparkle always seemed to know who had been trying to contact you. Once, you came home to find a lock of hair tied with a ribbon sitting neatly on your pillow. Another night, red petals scattered across the floor… damp, and smelling faintly of iron.

And always, her smile.

A painted, perfect mask. A smile that never wavered. A smile that promised she wasn’t joking, not anymore.

"Do you know what you did to me, darling?” She whispers one night, leaning close enough that her breath warms your ear.