Fatal Glow, Stolen Life

The shrill alarm sliced through the quiet, dragging me back to a body that felt impossibly light, unmarked by the scars that should have been there.

I was 24 again, in the apartment Liam rented, a year before our wedding, a year before everything fell apart.

The memory hit like a cold shock: Liam' s voice, not of concern, but sharp with disappointment after my liposuction failed. "Chloe, the doctor said the liposuction failed. You didn't lose enough weight. The wedding is in two months. Do you understand how this makes me look?"

And Maya, my best friend, whispering comfort that I now knew was pure poison. "Oh, Chloe, don't listen to him. You tried so hard. Maybe your body just isn't meant to be thin."

She watched, smiling, as I starved myself, ran myself ragged, and went under the knife, all for Liam' s "perfect image"-until a post-op infection finally claimed me.

It wasn't until I was dying that I understood the curse, the horrifying truth: every ounce of fat I lost, every bit of vitality I drained from myself, was subtly transferred to Maya. She wasn't just my best friend; she was a parasite, feeding on my self-hatred, growing more radiant as I withered.

But I wasn't the weak, naive Chloe who died in that hospital bed. This time, I knew their cruel game.

And this time, I wasn't just going to play. I was going to win.