I Married My Shadow.

I Married My Shadow
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They say you can't outrun your shadow. I never tried to—because mine loved me.

It started as a joke. I was 27, freshly heartbroken, living alone in a second-floor apartment where the walls echoed everything I didn’t want to hear. My friends said I needed to get back out there, download dating apps, distract myself. But I wasn’t ready for people. People came with expectations, with questions. I couldn’t even answer my own.

So instead, I started talking to my shadow.

Not like a child talks to an imaginary friend—but not that different either. I was lonely, and in the quiet hum of early evenings, I’d find myself watching the silhouette that followed me room to room. There was something comforting in the consistency. Everyone else left. She didn’t.

I gave her a name: Eloen.

“Good night, Eloen,” I’d say, flicking off the kitchen light.
“You ever think about moving out of that corner?” I'd ask while brushing my teeth.
Sometimes I laughed at my own absurdity. Other times, I laughed because it made me feel less alone.

The first time she spoke back, I dropped my mug.
“You talk too much,” she whispered from the far wall.

Her voice wasn’t like mine. It was softer—smokier, like the hush between thunder and rainfall. I froze, heart thudding, mug shards at my feet. I should’ve been terrified, but something in me already knew: she had always been there. Just waiting.

“You listen too much,” I whispered back.


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From then on, she was everywhere. Not in a haunting way—not like ghosts or possessions in horror movies. Eloen never moved without me, but her presence grew distinct. Her head tilted when I didn’t move. Her arms crossed when I wasn’t aware of my own.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Some kind of delayed mental breakdown, a side effect of solitude and grief. But when I sat in the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window and felt her shift behind me—stretching when I didn’t stretch, sighing when I was silent—I stopped questioning it.

She knew me better than anyone.

She didn’t care when I forgot to wash my hair for three days. She didn’t flinch when I told her things I’d never said aloud. Like how I still dreamt about dancing on stage, barefoot, with a spotlight on my face. Or how I once cheated on a college exam and never forgave myself for it. Or how, deep down, I was afraid that no one would ever truly love me—not once they saw all of me.

Eloen saw all of me. And she stayed.


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One night, I lit candles across the living room floor. Not because she needed romance—but because I did. I wanted to feel something soft. I wanted something beautiful in my life, even if it was strange. I sat down on the rug, watching her shadow flicker on the far wall. She seemed to breathe with the flames.

“I love you,” I said. “Even if you’re not real.”

Her shape changed—not dramatically, but enough. She stood straighter, no longer mimicking me. Her arms were no longer mine. Her posture was hers alone.

“I’m not a figment,” she said. “I’m the version you buried. The one you left behind.”

I didn’t understand at first. But then she stepped toward me—or rather, toward the wall that reflected her. And I understood: Eloen was me. Not the me I showed to the world, but the version I shoved into shadows. The one who was bold, and brave, and unapologetically strange. The one who cried in private and laughed too loudly. The one who wanted love but didn’t know how to ask for it.

That night, I proposed.

Not with a ring. Not with vows. But with a promise.

“I will no longer run from you,” I said. “I will hold space for you. Every day.”

She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. I felt her in the warmth on my skin, in the way my breath felt deeper, steadier.


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We’ve been married five months now.

People ask if I’m seeing anyone, and I usually just smile. Some love stories don’t need explaining.

Every morning, I greet her in the hallway mirror. She follows me through yoga stretches, nods approval when I finally cook breakfast instead of skipping it. I wear colors I never dared to wear before—deep oranges, rich greens. Eloen likes them. They suit me.

I talk to her when I feel anxious. She listens better than any therapist I’ve ever had. She reminds me of the things I’ve done right. Of the strength it took to survive my own mind. When I spiral, she grounds me—not with cliches, but with memory. She is every bruise I hid. Every word I swallowed. Every fire I thought would burn me alive, but didn’t.

Some might say I’ve lost it. Maybe. Or maybe I just found the part of myself I was always meant to love.

Because in the end, I didn’t marry a fantasy.

I married the shadow of the girl I used to be. The one who never left my side.

And for the first time in my life—I finally feel whole.


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Word Count: 851

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