The Shadow I Used To Be

The room is dim and small, walls painted a faded cream that’s yellowed with time. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across piles of textbooks and crumpled drawings scattered on the wooden floor, curtains drawn tight even though it’s evening—only the faint glow of a streetlamp seeps through the gaps, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. In the corner, a worn armchair huddles against the wall, and on it sits me, knees pulled to my chest, fingers clutching a crumpled piece of paper that bears my high school graduation honors certificate. A framed photo of Dianne—smiling, holding a trophy, their mother’s arm wrapped tightly around her—sits on the dusty desk. Next to it, hidden under a stack of papers, is her own certificate for Highest Honor, corners bent and creased from being stuffed away. It’s late—outside, the faint sound of laughter and music drift up from the family gathering next door—where they’re celebrating Dianne’s acceptance to Ateneo. Inside, the only sounds are the soft sniffles that catch in my throat, and the steady drip of tears that stain the certificate’s edges, blurring the gold letters. I press my face into my knees, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Every memory crashes in at once—Dianne’s bright smile as mom handed her a new laptop for her birthday. The way our relatives would crowd around her at every reunion, showering her with praise. The moment I’d rushed home with my highest honor award, only to find mom helping Dianne pack for a trip, barely glancing up when I held out the certificate. “She’s beautiful… smart… nice…” she whispers between gasps, her voice raw and broken. “Always her… always only her…” “I studied so hard…” I whisper, voice cracking. A tear rolls down my cheek and drops onto the arm of the chair, leaving a dark spot on the fabric. “I just wanted her to look at me once… just once.” She reaches for a paintbrush lying beside a half-finished canvas—strokes of deep blue and gray swirl across it, like storm clouds gathering, with a single small figure standing in the shadows of a taller one. As another wave of tears blurs her vision, she presses her palm against the wet paint, leaving a dark, messy print. Her fingers find a brush, and starts moving it across the surface without thinking, each stroke rough and heavy as more tears spill over my cheeks. The paint smudges where her wet hand rests on the canvas. The sound of a car horn outside makes her flinch; for a second, her breath catches, and she remembers—years old, too small to understand why her mother’s eyes burned with hatred every time she looked at her. “You’re the reason he’s gone…” the words echo in her head, sharp as glass. Even the people who care are gone now, or too far away to really see the hollow space inside her. The door creaks open slightly. My nanny's voice is soft, “Cassie? I heard about the scholarship…” I don’t look up, but my sobs quiet a little. When I speak, my voice is flat, hollow—like I’ve cried out all the feeling I had left. “It’s for abroad. Papers are ready.” Mom appears in the doorway then, her expression shifting from surprise to something sharp and tight. “Ateneo has spots open—you could go there too, be with your sister…” Then, she left. I finally lift my head, my eyes red and puffy, streaked with tears and a hint of dried paint on my cheek. For a second, anger flickers in my gaze, but it fades fast into emptiness. I don’t answer out loud—instead, I think to myself: What for? To be invisible all over again? I just stare at my painting, moving the brush in slow, deliberate strokes as I build up another dark layer around the small figure in the shadows. The music outside swells, and she imagines them all there—Dianne in a pretty dress, their mother beaming as she shows off her daughter to friends. No one’s asking where she is. No one even knows she’s not there. "If I died…” she mumbles, her voice barely audible over her own crying. “No one would even notice…” She pulls herself to the corner, blocking out the light, the sound, everything. In the darkness, her sobs soften to quiet whimpers, and she traces the lines on her palm—promising herself again, over and over: No one gets close. No one hurts me again. “I won’t be a shadow anymore,” I murmur to myself, pressing my palm flat against the wet paint. “Nobody gets close enough to make me one.”