"It should have been me."
The words slipped from Ethan's lips before he even realized he'd spoken them. He sat hunched over in the corner of a dim bar, nursing a drink that had long since gone warm. On the television above the counter, Adrian and Isabella smiled for the cameras, bathed in flashing lights, their arms looped around each other like the perfect couple.
A headline scrolled beneath their faces:
"Adrian Gray Wins International Literary Prize — Wife Isabella Gray by His Side."
The crowd in the bar clapped politely, a few patrons raising their glasses to the screen. Ethan looked down quickly, ashamed of the tears that burned his eyes. He turned his glass in his hands, staring at the way the light fractured through the amber liquid. That was all his words amounted to now: fragments.
He left the bar and walked through the city streets, the chill of the night air gnawing at him. Posters of Adrian's newest book cover decorated bookstore windows. Entire displays were built around it — smiling sales clerks stacking copies, customers buzzing about the "masterpiece" that had shaken the literary world.
Ethan pressed a hand to the glass of one shop window, his reflection hovering beside Adrian's flawless image. For a fleeting second, it almost looked like they were side by side. Then a clerk inside blocked his view, carrying another stack of books, and the illusion vanished.
---
Days blurred into weeks.
He stopped writing. At first, it was because his hands trembled too much to hold a pen. Then it was because the words wouldn't come, no matter how he tried. Eventually, it became a choice. What was the point? His voice was gone. Branded a plagiarist, dismissed as a madman, he had no audience left to hear him. His silence was easier than ridicule.
His apartment decayed around him — dishes piled high, unopened letters yellowing on the counter. He spent hours staring at blank pages, waiting for something to move inside him, but all he felt was the weight of emptiness.
Sometimes, he thought of Maya. Of her hands unpacking groceries on his counter, of the way she said, "You're not alone unless you choose to be." But he had chosen. He had pushed her away, too lost in the illusion of Isabella to see the truth standing in front of him.
And Isabella… he thought of her constantly, even now. Not the real woman, not the one who returned to Adrian without hesitation, but the version he had loved — the woman who whispered that she saw him, that he mattered. That ghost lingered in him like a poison he couldn't purge.
---
One evening, he found himself at the edge of a crowded square. A massive stage had been erected, banners fluttering above it:
"Adrian Gray: A Celebration of Genius."
He hadn't planned to come. He'd only been walking, drifting, trying to outrun the emptiness inside him. But the crowd pulled him in, pressing him closer to the stage until he stood among them, an invisible man.
Adrian appeared first, bowing graciously as the audience erupted in applause. Isabella followed, radiant, her hand slipping into Adrian's with practiced ease. Cameras flashed, the light nearly blinding.
Ethan stood rooted in place, the cheers vibrating through his body like aftershocks. He wanted to scream. To climb the stage and tear the microphone from Adrian's hand and shout the truth until his voice broke. But he didn't. He couldn't.
His silence was complete now.
Adrian raised his award high, and the crowd roared. Isabella leaned in to kiss his cheek, her smile perfect and unshaken. Together, they looked untouchable, like royalty in their own fairytale kingdom.
Ethan turned away. He couldn't watch anymore.
---
He wandered back to his apartment that night, the noise of the celebration still echoing in his ears. He sat at his desk, staring at a single blank page. For hours, he didn't move.
Finally, he reached for his pen. His hand hovered, but nothing came. No words, no sparks, no life. Just silence.
He let the pen drop.
Leaning back in his chair, Ethan closed his eyes. The world would remember Adrian Gray. They would remember Isabella Gray. They would write articles, build legacies, speak their names in awe.
No one would remember Ethan Cole.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of all — the fairytale hadn't just ended badly. It had erased him entirely.
The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside. Ethan sat in the darkness, broken, forgotten, his voice extinguished.
And somewhere, in the distance, the applause went on without him.