When I died, my shadow decided they would take over… and at first, it was exhilarating. Watching from a distance, I saw it step into my life without hesitation, free from the fear and doubt that had held me back for so long. It navigated the world with an ease I never had, walking through familiar places as if it had always belonged there. The shadow lived boldly, engaging in conversations I’d once been too anxious to start and pursuing dreams I had shelved out of fear of failure.

One of the first moments that truly struck me was when it strolled through the park where I used to walk, always keeping my head down, afraid of being noticed. My shadow, however, didn’t shrink away. It sat under the old oak tree where I had once hidden with a book, and instead of reading alone, it struck up a conversation with a stranger. I watched, a strange ache growing in me, as they laughed, the connection so effortless. I had always wanted that, but fear of rejection had always kept me on the sidelines.

Then there was the gallery downtown, a place I had passed a hundred times but never entered. I had convinced myself it wasn’t my kind of space—that I wouldn’t belong, that people would see me as out of place. My shadow, though, walked through the doors as if it owned the room. It stood before the artwork, speaking with a curator about brushstrokes and color as if it had always known these things. It engaged in a world I had longed to explore but had been too afraid to step into.

I followed my shadow to places I had only dreamed of going. It picked up books I’d bought but never read, walked into conversations I had rehearsed but never spoken. It moved through my life with a confidence that was once foreign to me. And for a while, I found joy in watching it live the way I had always wanted to, unburdened by the anxieties that had shackled me. But as time passed, that exhilaration gave way to a gnawing sense of regret.

The hardest moment came when it walked into a small bookstore I’d passed countless times but never dared to enter. I had always made excuses: “I don’t have the time” or “I’ll go next week.” My shadow didn’t hesitate. It moved through the narrow aisles, picking up books I’d always wanted to read, but had let collect dust on my shelves. Watching it explore those stories—the ones I’d been too afraid to dive into—was like witnessing the life I could have had, slipping through my fingers.

It wasn’t just about the places or the things I hadn’t done. It was the realization that my shadow wasn’t living recklessly—it was simply living freely, without the burden of fear or doubt. It wasn’t evil. It wasn’t trying to take over my life in some twisted way. It was just living the way I never allowed myself to. That’s what hurt the most. Watching it thrive in the spaces I’d left untouched, I felt the weight of everything I had missed.

I remember one night, following my shadow back to the apartment—our apartment. The same walls, the same soft glow of the lamp beside the couch. Yet, everything felt different. The air was lighter, the space fuller. My shadow moved through the rooms with a familiarity, but it was no longer tied to the hesitations that had defined my existence. It sat at the desk where I had spent countless hours staring at a blank screen, paralyzed by the fear that my words wouldn’t be good enough. My shadow didn’t hesitate. It opened my laptop and started typing, the words flowing effortlessly. There was no fear of judgment, no concern over whether the story would resonate. It was just writing, purely, unfiltered.

And that’s when it truly hit me—my shadow was living the life I could have had, had I just been brave enough. The realization settled over me like a heavy fog: I had spent so much time being afraid—afraid of failing, of looking foolish, of not being enough. I had spent my life holding myself back from everything I wanted, convinced that I wasn’t capable of reaching it. And now, it was too late. I had missed out on all of it.

My shadow wasn’t some malevolent force—it was simply the version of me that I never allowed to exist. It was everything I could have been if I had just let go of the fear and lived. Watching it now, I didn’t feel anger. I felt sorrow. Sorrow for all the chances I hadn’t taken, all the dreams I had let slip away because I was too afraid of what might happen if I failed. My shadow wasn’t extraordinary—it was me, living without limits, without hesitation.

As the days passed, I realized my shadow didn’t want to erase me. It wasn’t trying to replace me. It was living the life I had always been too afraid to claim. It moved through the world with a quiet confidence, not needing approval or validation. It didn’t seek power—it simply sought to live fully. And in doing so, it showed me everything I had missed out on.

Now, as I linger on the fringes of existence, watching my shadow inhabit a life that was once mine, I feel the weight of regret. Not because my shadow had taken over, but because it had shown me just how much I had held myself back. I realize now that life was always there, waiting for me to take it. But I had been too afraid to reach out and claim it.

In the end, it wasn’t the world that had limited me—it was me. My shadow wasn’t the villain of this story. It was the part of me that I had kept hidden, suppressed, for so long. And now, as I watch it live boldly and without fear, I can only wonder what might have been if I had allowed myself to do the same.