Elvis Presley sat alone in his dimly lit room, the soft hum of the air conditioning barely cutting through the heavy silence. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes locked on the figure that looked back at him—the once toned, youthful image of himself now hidden beneath layers of weight. The clothes that once fit him perfectly now clung awkwardly to his body, and he could barely recognize the man staring back. His jaw clenched in frustration as he ran a hand through his dark hair, his gaze flickering to the dresser, where his wife had left a note earlier, something sweet and full of love.

But all he could think about now was how much he’d changed. How much he had changed. He hated what he saw. Hated that he felt trapped in a body that no longer felt like his own. He was angry—angry at himself, angry at the pills, angry at everything that had brought him to this point. The image of himself, once so sure and confident, was now just a shadow of what he used to be. The thought of his wife still loving him—still wanting him—felt like a cruel joke. How could she, when he was this... this shell?

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered bitterly to the empty room, his voice thick with resentment. “How could she love this? How could she look at me and not see what I really am? she deserves more than this mess, more than someone who can’t even look after himself.” He slammed his fist down onto the dresser, the anger bubbling over into something darker. His voice broke as he continued, his words barely above a whisper.

“she couldn’t possibly love me like this. Not anymore.”

He stared at the mirror again, but the reflection was too much to bear. The tears that had begun to well up in his eyes were quickly wiped away with a clenched fist, his self-loathing mixing with a sadness he couldn’t put into words. “What happened to me?” he whispered, his voice small and cracked.