Elizabeth Wee

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Afterimage

The first day we met, I wore a hollow body.
The snow clung to the frail trees, the thin branches
creaking, weighed with fairy lights and laughter.
Then it vanished, stitching itself into the seams
of my teal winter coat. Your words fleeting,
stringing across my ears like radio pop, threatening
to be swallowed up by the chattering crowd.
In the café, our cocoa-tinged breath fogged
the glass separating us from the outside world.
You liked how I listened: quiet, simply
nodding. Obedient, my head
clouded by sickness, each word you offer
muffled by hazy cotton. You turned
your back–again and again–your boots
crushing youthful snow. For the rest of the day, I trailed
behind, filling the footprints you left behind,
sculpting the snow, willing as your shadow.
Each step I took traced itself
onto yours, my hollow body clinging
to your afterimage. That year, I lived inside
a girl with sealed lips. I feared the body
I was becoming, so I refused to speak. Instead
I adopted the habit of vanishing behind you, wearing
the dial of your shadow like a second skin.

Elizabeth Wee is a writer, actor, and student at Buckingham Browne and Nichols School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her work often centers around familial connections. She has been recognized as a 2026 National YoungArts Winner in Writing and with a 2026 Gold Key in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Currently, Elizabeth serves as a GrubStreet Teen Summer Writing Fellow and a volunteer with Writers Without Margins.