Those watching from their windows saw The Woman’s flame burn out like lights during a thunderstorm: a stuttering flicker, and then darkness.

She was wearing red. Red made her feel powerful, so she encompassed herself with it: red nails, red lipstick, red heels. The faux confidence only went so far, though, and The Woman had overstretched it, her bright red persona fading as it expanded into a starchy nothingness.

She had always been so smart, so prepared, so successful. What went wrong? Was it that she pushed love away in favor of gaining status in her career? Or that she ignored the screeching outcry of her brain asking for food, for more sleep, for a break? Or maybe, it was that deep down she knew this life could never fulfill her.

She stared ahead into the giant city she had made her home. She took that city by storm, and she was proud of it. But pride wasn’t enough anymore. The Woman felt the ache of a hunger, the pleading cry of her spirit asking her to do something else. To be an artist, a mother, a wife.

But she did nothing. There was nothing she could do. Because when she looked down, her name was still etched into the gold tag designating her CFO of the company. She still had her bank account, containing her glorious and hard-earned wealth. She was still petite and slim, the sole resident of a small body on the verge of disappearing. She still had–and always would have–her status.

And that would be enough. It had to be enough. Being a woman who had sacrificed her humanity to be perceived as successful, wealthy, and beautiful, she could never acknowledge the fact that the life she got in return would never be enough.