She’s the witness to her own murder. Her assassin is consuming her from the inside, peeling off one layer after another. It’s a slow, excruciating death. The core of her being—gone.
She’s now defined not by what she does, but by what she doesn’t do.
She: doesn’t date anymore, doesn’t blog, doesn’t swim, doesn’t text. Her brother notices the erosion of her personality, asks what happened.
She’d like to reply with something eye-opening, something poetic, like “Social anxiety is a reverse Panopticon,” but that would sound artificial, pretentious, so instead she shrugs, adding doesn’t talk to who she has become.