I’m Emma, the younger twin. People often say we’re so alike it’s hard to tell us apart, but in truth, the differences are in every small detail. I’m an introvert, happiest living in silence, spending hours in a dark room editing every frame, tweaking effects, and adjusting light and sound until they’re perfect. I find joy in being behind the scenes, creating the pieces that come together for the world to see a flawless picture. My sister, Ellie, on the other hand, is always the center of attention. She has a radiant smile, a confident voice, and a captivating demeanor. Every time she steps in front of the camera, she looks like she was born for the stage.
I often joke that without me, Ellie is just a pretty face, and without her, I’m just a faint shadow in a cramped room. But the brutal truth is more complex: we exist because of each other. Without one of us, the world we’ve built would crumble.
We started from nothing, with videos of us trying on cheap lipsticks and hurried outfit shoots in a dimly lit bedroom. But through sheer persistence, and thanks to Ellie’s ability to captivate an audience and my knack for turning clumsy footage into polished masterpieces, we reached millions. Our Instagram is full of perfect photos with hundreds of thousands of likes. On TikTok, every video quickly hits millions of views, with Ellie performing as if every emotion in the world belongs to her. Our family is so proud. My parents always say, “Our two daughters have done things we never even dreamed of.” They see the glamour, the sponsorship deals, the luxurious gifts sent home. But no one sees the shadows silently consuming us.
Behind the makeup and bright smiles is a reality only I understand: to get just a few perfect seconds on screen, I’ve stayed up for countless nights, cutting out every extra second, hiding every minor flaw, and deleting moments when Ellie was tired or lost control. I turn reality into an illusion, a messy life into a dazzling short film that millions of people believe is a perfect model. But every time I look at the screen, I feel myself disappearing a little more. I’m no longer Emma; I’m just “the person behind Ellie.”
Sometimes I want to scream, “I exist, too! I’m important!” But I swallow those words, replacing them with the frantic clicking of my keyboard and color-grading sessions that last until dawn. I know Ellie loves me. She always says, “You’re the brain, and I’m the heart. We’re a team.” But sometimes I wonder if only one player on this team gets to stand in the spotlight. And how long will it be before I’m completely swallowed by my own sister’s shadow?
The world only sees Ellie. They call her name, they praise her. I’m just the invisible hands creating the magic no one remembers. The further we go, the more the tension grows. We’re living in a modern world where every glance is measured in views, every value is counted in likes and contracts. I don’t know what my future holds. I only know that if I were to disappear one day, probably no one would notice. But if Ellie were to disappear, our entire empire would collapse instantly. And that is the most painful truth I’m forced to accept.
On the outside, everyone sees a perfect Ellie: a radiant smile, a confident stance, every frame looking like it’s straight out of a magazine. People admire her, call her a “social media goddess,” and believe she’s the embodiment of flawless success. But behind closed doors, reality shatters into pieces. Sometimes, she hurls her phone onto the bed, her voice erupting in the silent room: “Why did this video only get three hundred thousand views?!” The sound ricochets off the walls, echoing back, sharp enough to make me freeze. I sit in the corner, my eyes fixed on her hands trembling with anger, and in that moment, I see a different Ellie: fragile, exhausted, and trapped by her own fame.
I know the formula for success we’re clinging to. A packed filming schedule, posting strategies for peak hours, dazzling lights, and catchy background music. I master every detail, edit every frame, knowing exactly what drives views and what keeps viewers engaged for a few extra seconds. But this comes at an unspoken cost—our peace of mind, our sleep, even our freedom to breathe. Ellie doesn’t allow herself to slow down, and neither am I allowed to.
Some nights, she turns to me, her eyes so strained they look like they might break. “Emma, if you don’t finish editing by the deadline, we’ll lose the contract. Do you understand?” Her voice is a mix of pleading and command. I nod without a word, not because I’m afraid, but because I know she’s also caught in this same vortex—a vortex that devours both joy and sorrow, leaving only pressure. In the silence, I turn on my computer, open the editing software, and begin a work marathon that lasts until 3 a.m.
When the screen flickers with the final frames, Ellie is already fast asleep, her face serene in a sleep I envy. I continue on quietly, adjusting every light, cutting every beat, adding every small effect to make the video perfect. I look at her sleeping face and feel a bitter paradox: by day, she presents a perfect smile to the world; by night, I keep that smile alive with bloodshot eyes and hands trembling from exhaustion.
Sometimes, I wonder: am I just the shadow behind her, or is she living in the world I create? Without my hands, those glittering videos would be rough, unpolished footage, not strong enough to hold anyone’s attention. But it’s also because of me that Ellie has to keep this cycle going, to maintain an image that can never be cracked. That truth chokes me up.
Out there, Ellie is a “goddess” to millions. Inside our home, she’s a person struggling to breathe, and I’m a helpless witness to the cracks that are getting bigger by the day. We’re tied to each other, like two sides of the same mask. People praise the perfection they see, and I live with the price we pay for that perfection.
And in those quiet nights, when the only sound is the frantic tapping of my keyboard, I wonder: will we both one day disappear along with the illusion of this fame?
Under the dim yellow light of the dining room, we always try to keep things calm. My parents look at us with proud eyes, believing we’re enjoying our youth and living a perfect life. Ellie is a master at hiding every flaw. She smiles brightly, talks about collaboration offers and lavish photoshoots. I sit quietly, just nodding in agreement, as if everything she says is true. My parents see a happy family, two talented daughters. But only when the lights are off, and their footsteps fade down the hallway, do I realize the truth: in the darkness of our room, the distance between Ellie and me grows clearer every day, like an invisible line dividing us.
Sometimes I wonder, are we still a team? Or am I just setting up a stage for Ellie to stand on, basking in the spotlight, while I sink into the shadows? Every time I look at her, I see the exhaustion behind her smile, but she never admits it. And then, that very stage—the light we thought was our reward—begins to swallow both of us.
Everything fell apart the day Ellie was caught in a major scandal. An anti-fan account released a series of exposes with a malicious and calculated tone. They accused her of having an arrogant attitude towards staff, using her fame for manipulation, and even promoting counterfeit products. There was no clear evidence or specific proof, just sharp words arranged like a knife. But in the online world, who needs the truth? The accusations spread faster than a wildfire, burning down the image Ellie had worked so hard to build.
Within days, those posts were everywhere. Online news outlets and entertainment sites jumped in, amplifying every single word. The social media crowd, in turn, began to scream, criticize, and mock. Ellie—the image of a sweet, elegant, and powerful girl—was suddenly stripped bare, exposed as a laughingstock to millions of eyes.
“You can’t hide a star attitude forever,” one cold comment read, garnering thousands of likes.
“So she’s been a deceiver all this time?” another account added, without caring about the truth.
“The more famous you are, the dirtier you get,” one person wrote casually, yet the words spread like wildfire.
I sat in front of the screen, reading every line as my heart felt like it was being squeezed. Each comment was a dagger, stabbing not just Ellie but me, too. I looked at my sister and saw a chilling silence instead of her once radiant smile. Her eyes were no longer sparkling; they were dull, exhausted. But she said nothing. And I didn’t dare ask. An unspoken tension hung between us, taut like a wire, just waiting for the slightest touch to snap.
I suddenly realized that what was destroying Ellie wasn’t just the accusations, but the way the world was so ready to believe the worst thing they wanted to see. Ellie had once walked on a dazzling stage, but now that light had turned into a fire, burning everything down—including us.
Ellie was stunned, and standing behind her, I felt the ground crumble beneath my feet. We were so used to the praise, the skyrocketing follower counts, and the lucrative advertising deals that automatically came our way. But now, those things were disappearing one by one: brands were rushing to email us to cancel contracts, and some partners even publicly announced they were “discontinuing their collaboration due to ethical concerns.” An entire empire built on social media fame was collapsing because of a few lines of text from an anonymous account.
I wasn’t just her manager. I was her sister, the person behind Ellie’s every move for years. From her packed schedule to every juicy contract, from managing her public image to the secret deals behind the scenes—I arranged it all, down to the smallest detail. Yet now, as the storm of public opinion hit, everything I had done became meaningless. Suspicious looks and malicious whispers were all directed at me. “Did Ellie’s sister know everything? Or was she an accomplice?” These questions twisted like daggers, repeated across every forum as if people were bloodthirsty, just waiting for a name to blame. And Ellie and I became the perfect scapegoats for that fury.
On those long nights, Ellie couldn’t sleep. She would sit in our luxurious apartment that now felt like a prison, the blue light from her screen illuminating her gaunt face. She reread every hateful comment, every word cutting deep into her once untouchable pride. “They’re turning me into a monster…” she’d say, her voice trembling, her eyes lost as if she had lost her way. I knew she wasn’t an angel. Ellie had been short-tempered, made demanding requests of her staff, and had even yelled at me over a delayed contract. But I also knew for a fact that she had never betrayed the public with blatant lies. The blatant accusations out there, though just rumors, had the power to strangle us both.
As for me, every morning my phone would vibrate nonstop, flooded with messages. Reporters were constantly sending interview requests, old colleagues called to pry, and even friends from my past would suddenly text, feigning concern but really just wanting information. “You know what Ellie does behind the scenes, right?” That question was repeated over and over, drowning me in suspicion. Ellie’s former employees were also pulled into the vortex, barraged with questions: “Did she ever act arrogant or yell at you? Did you ever witness anything unusual?” Everything was spiraling out of control, as if the crowd was just waiting for a confession to ignite an explosion.
I tried to stay calm. I wrote official responses and press releases with professional language, hoping to quell the angry tide. But it was all for nothing. The crowd didn’t want the truth. They didn’t care about a person’s complexities, didn’t care about what Ellie had contributed. What they needed was a simple tragedy, a villain to satisfy their craving for drama. And in the script the public had written, my sister was the deceiver, and I was her accomplice.
With each passing day, the pressure tightened. Ellie was losing the confidence that had once made the world admire her. I saw her hand tremble as she signed a document and her eyes become blank when a camera flashed. I continued to try and shield her, but I knew in my heart that the wall I had built for years was now crumbling. In the midst of the screaming crowd, we only had each other. But with just two trembling hands, would we be strong enough to hold onto the fragile trust that was being swept away?
I vividly remember the moment Ellie slammed her hand on the table, her voice filled with despair: “If they already want to see me as a villain, then whatever I say is useless.” I was silent. I knew she was right. But silence also meant accepting that the world would define her. And worse, it was also defining me—the person behind the scenes, the younger sister, the manager, the partner, now being pulled down into the abyss with her.
Amidst the chaos, what I felt most wasn’t the public’s hatred but the ever-growing, invisible distance between Ellie and me. We used to be a team, a perfect match, a well-oiled machine. Now, we were sitting in the same room, but it was as if we were drifting apart, each of us struggling with our own pain. The name Ellie no longer just evoked glamour; it had become the center of an endless storm of judgment. And I—whether I liked it or not—had been completely pulled into that vortex.
Ellie, in a state of panic after the scandal, completely changed. The woman who was once my ally, who had helped me build everything, was now turning against me. She started looking at me as a burden, even a threat. In a short but tense meeting, Ellie said bluntly, “I can’t have you represent us anymore. You need to step back. I’ll handle this myself; I’ll rebuild my image my way.” Her voice was hard, without any of the warmth from our early days. I looked at her, searching for a trace of reason, a glimmer of hope that this was just a reaction in a moment of anger, but no—her gaze was resolute, almost cold.
From that moment on, what we had shared began to fall apart. Not only did Ellie want me to step back, she also tried to push me out of my co-founder position—a position I had poured so much sweat and effort into building with her. Our conversations slowly turned into arguments. Ellie didn’t hesitate to use harsh, even hurtful, words: “If you were really capable, this wouldn’t have happened. You didn’t speak up to defend me, you didn’t stop the crowd out there. You just stood by and watched everything fall apart!” I choked up, wanting to argue, wanting to explain that I had tried, that I hadn’t turned my back on her. But every word I tried to say was silenced by Ellie’s rage.
Day by day, the distance between us grew wider. Ellie started taking concrete actions, clearly aimed at removing me from the picture. She talked about transferring all of our shared assets into her name, saying it was “the only way to protect the company.” But I knew, deep down, she wanted to take control, wanted me to completely disappear. I tried to stay calm, to find a way to negotiate: “Ellie, we started from nothing. Everything we have today is the result of both of our hard work. You can’t treat me like an outsider just because of this crisis.” But all I got in return was a cold stare: “Hard work? If you were really useful, I wouldn’t be bearing all the knives of public opinion alone.”
The most painful part wasn’t losing my assets or my position, but being betrayed by the person who had stood by my side. Ellie wasn’t just questioning my abilities; she was also starting to plant a more serious accusation—that I was the one who had secretly leaked the evidence. That accusation was like a dagger twisted directly into my heart. I was stunned, almost unable to believe my ears. “You think I would betray you? You think I would go and destroy everything we built together?” But Ellie didn’t want to listen anymore. In her eyes, I had become a suspect, a name to blame for everything so she could find her own spotlight again.
In the nights that followed, I sat alone, replaying every word she had said. Maybe, when fear and public pressure surrounded her, Ellie could no longer distinguish between allies and enemies. But the truth remained: we had gone through the beginning together, building a dream from nothing. And now, the very sister who had held my hand, who had promised “we’ll never abandon each other,” was doing everything she could to push me to the edge.
This was no longer a simple disagreement. This was a breakdown, a betrayal. And I knew, from the moment Ellie decided to make me her opponent, this fight wouldn’t be about saving our reputation—it would be about seeing who would be left standing when everything was over.
During a livestream one night, Ellie appeared with a tear-streaked face and a trembling but dramatic voice. Thousands of viewers tuned in as she started telling her story, as if she were the victim in a hopeless tragedy. Ellie claimed that I—her “trusting sister”—had betrayed her, secretly plotting to ruin her career and steal the top spot. Every word she said was like a dagger to my heart, not only because of the false accusations, but also because of how she was turning the truth into a play for people to pity her.
She didn’t stop there. Ellie continued to expose family secrets that should have stayed private. She brought up my weaknesses and the private vulnerabilities I had once shared with her during our closest days. On live broadcast, her voice broke: “She took everything from me, not just my career but my trust and my family. I’ve lost everything because of my own sister.”
The live audience was incensed. Some were quick to defend Ellie, calling me a traitor and two-faced. Comments poured in, attacking and cursing me, and not a single one of them knew the truth was the complete opposite.
What Ellie didn’t know was that I had secretly recorded our entire argument. From her threats and cruel curses to her own admission of her petty schemes—I had saved it all. I still remember her voice that day, cold and malicious: “If you dare to surpass me, I’ll drag you to the bottom. I’d rather lose everything than let you stand above me.”
But I wasn’t foolish enough to use that evidence directly. I knew that if I released it myself, people would just think I was retaliating, making up a story to justify myself. In this loud and harsh world, the person who speaks first is often believed, while the person who comes later is just trying to clear their name. And I couldn’t be “the one who came later” forever.
So, I chose to be silent. I let everything unfold, allowing the public to be consumed by the fire Ellie had started. But at the same time, I sent those audio and video recordings to a well-known anti-fan account—someone who had been tracking Ellie’s every move for a long time. I didn’t create the counter-fire; I just gave them the match. And as I had predicted, the evidence was quickly released.
In the leaked recordings, the audience heard Ellie’s true voice, without the fake tears or fabricated weakness. There was only malice, threats, and secrets she had once sworn never to reveal. The contrast was stark. The woman who had just been crying on a livestream was now exposed as someone willing to destroy everything to keep her fame.
When people realized the truth, public opinion quickly turned. Those who had stood by Ellie now turned their backs, calling her a hypocrite. Clips, analysis videos, and angry hashtags flooded social media. Ellie screamed in her next livestream that she had been framed and that the evidence was manipulated, but it was all useless. Her voice in the recording was too clear, too real to deny.
As for me, I remained silent. I didn’t explain, argue, or take credit for exposing her. Because I understood that in this world, silence is sometimes the sharpest revenge. Ellie used her tears to create a play, and all I needed was a little bit of truth to tear that stage down.
And just like that, from being the accused, I became the outsider—the only person who knew exactly how everything unfolded. I didn’t need to take Ellie down. She had done it herself with her ambition and deceit.
I started the livestream right after that tense conversation. The screen lit up, and my face appeared, revealing all the fatigue and tension that was etched on it. But my voice was firm and steady, as if I had been preparing for this moment for a long time. I looked straight into the camera, my eyes unwavering:
“You still think you’re seeing a perfect family. You believe in the glossy photos, the sweet posts, the flowery words my sister always carefully presents to the public. But I want everyone to know the truth. That perfect image is just a mask. And behind that mask… are things that no one would believe if I didn’t say them.”
I paused for a few seconds, taking a deep breath, letting the heavy silence linger. My heart was pounding like it was about to break out of my chest, but at the same time, I felt a sense of liberation stirring within me. And then, as if a pressure valve had been opened, every word, every memory, every long-held grievance came pouring out uncontrollably.
I talked about what my sister had done—the sweet-coated manipulations hidden under a facade of kindness, the subtle psychological games that outsiders would never see. I talked about her selfishness, the way she always forced me to be silent, to “follow the script” so as not to affect the family’s reputation. I spoke about the lies she had used to maintain her image as the “perfect older sister,” the image so many admired, while I was being crushed behind the scenes.
Immediately, the number of viewers skyrocketed. The comments poured down like a sudden downpour. “No way!” one person wrote. “Finally, someone is brave enough to tell the truth!” another quickly typed. There were messages of support, but also sneers, accusations that I was jealous and selfish, that I was trying to tear down my own sister. The words streamed by, chaotic, but I didn’t stop. I looked at the screen, at the virtual crowd judging me, and I knew: once I pressed “go live,” there was no turning back.
“You can hate me. You can call me a traitor. But at the very least, listen to me until the end,” I said, my voice deepening, as if challenging the whole world. “She is not who you think she is. I’ve lived in her shadow for too long, and today… I’m not going to be silent for one second more.”
On the other side, I imagined my sister sitting somewhere, looking at her phone or laptop, her face rigid, her hands trembling with rage. The sister the public loved and hailed as a symbol of perfection was now being unmasked by me, piece by piece. I felt like I was holding a knife, slicing into the wax statue she had so painstakingly built, to show everyone the ugly, cracked skin underneath.
And I have to admit, in that moment, I felt a chilling satisfaction. Not because I enjoyed destroying her, but because for the first time in all these years, I could hear my own voice without it being muffled. I knew there would be a price to pay, that everything would change, that this war would become even more fierce. But at least the truth was out. And no one could force me to lock it back in silence.
But then, when the livestream ended, and the screen went dark again, I was left alone in the room with my ragged breath and trembling hands. The feeling of victory suddenly felt hollow. I had won, at least in the eyes of the public. They had seen her true face. They were shocked, they gossiped, they dove into arguments. But what was the price I paid? A shattered family. A sisterly bond that could never be mended.
I sat there quietly, remembering our childhood days, when we still held hands walking to school, sharing snacks and innocent dreams. All of it was just a memory now. Social media had turned those memories into a luxury. It had turned us into two enemies, standing on opposite sides of the battlefield, no longer family.
What did winning or losing even matter anymore? I had exposed the truth, but my heart felt empty. I didn’t feel happy, and I didn’t feel free. There was only a suffocating silence, like an open wound being ripped apart again. And I knew that from that moment on, we weren’t sisters anymore. We were just two names linked to a scandalous story on the internet, forever defined by betrayal and a war of interests.