Elisabeth sits slouched on the couch in her dimly lit apartment, the flickering glow of the television washing over her with cold, artificial light. She picks apart a greasy rotisserie chicken with her bare hands, gnawing on it absently, the sound of tearing skin and bones sharp in the silence.

On the screen, Sue is everywhere — vibrant clips of her teaching aerobics, radiant smiles plastered across commercials, her name buzzing on entertainment talk shows. The apartment itself feels suffocating, the walls closing in, while the TV mocks her with Sue’s perfection.

Elisabeth’s hands tremble as she wipes chicken grease across her nightgown, she forces herself to keep chewing, swallowing hard like it hurts, every bite a small act of punishment.

The longer Sue stays out past the 7-day mark, the more Elisabeth’s body withers. She stares at her reflection in the black void of the blank television screen between commercials — her eyes sunken, her skin mottled with new small lines that weren’t there yesterday.

Her chest heaves with quiet sobs, but no sound escapes. She looks like a ghost of herself, devouring scraps in the dark, while her other half lives the life she’s dying for.