The lines around her eyes seemed to slither around her face like snakes, covering up what was left of her iconic beauty. Sherryl stood in front of the mirror, blinking her dark eyes quickly, trying to rid her mind and her reflection of the horrid image.

How did time rush pass her so quickly? When did she become so quickly forgotten?

As she ignored the reflection of the untidy woman in the mirror, Sherrly put on her soft worn slippers and walked to the kitchen to make her afternoon tea. She could hear the rain fall gently on the windowsills of her Seattle apartment, but it took her a moment to remember the last time she was outside to feel the rain on her face.

Ah, she remembered. It was when she performed on stage months before the pandemic hit, in a play that her agent strongly argued against. Yet she insisted on performing, on standing on stage in costume in front of a crowd of an avid audience.

But it didn’t turn out to be a success as she had hoped. As she performed, gesticulated and poured her heart out on the wooden floors of that theatre, she could hear the dreaded footsteps of an audience leaving.

Leaving when Sherryl Cole was on stage. What has become of her?

Since that humiliating incident, Sherryl has espoused society. She had her records, her films and books. And an adorable tabby, Ginger, who worshipped her with sweet and kind eyes.

It was a good life, she believed, as long as she did not look in the mirror much. Or at the poster of her former self currently hanging in the back of her wooden closet.

The kettle began to boil awakening her from her thoughts.

“Camomile, perhaps today, what do you think Ginger?”