Lavender | Wakatoshi Ushijima

32 | Admit

It's 7PM and almost the end of the week. I haven't talked to Wakatoshi or my friends. I try to talk to Kiyo. All I need is a social battery recharge this weekend before I can be active again the next week and the one after.

It feels normal now, the part of me that hurts. It was especially hard at the beginning of the week when the love I have for him came running back every time I saw his familiar face. I'm now familiar with where the pieces of glass are on the floor, and stepping on them doesn't hurt as bad. I think I've pushed myself away enough to sink and no longer feel with the same depth. 

"Thank you for this meal," I say softly, getting up from the dinner table. I want to escape that table, where Mother sits. I can't face her after lying to her. It's killing me knowing I said the same lie over and over again to go to Kiyo's house.

I haven't had dinner with both of my parents in a while. Tonight, we're attending a funeral for the death of a family friend's elder. We have to leave the house together. I go up to the counter and take my dose of pills customarily before going up to my room.

I begin changing. It's been a while since I last looked at myself in the mirror. It's hard to find time to do that when I've been rotting in bed. I take off my baggy sweater and slip down my sweatpants, my hair falling to my shoulders upon throwing it to the ground. I look at myself in the mirror.

I immediately look down. My thighs are separate, as I internally wish for them to be. They're slim and my legs are half their width. I look at my hips, my skin sinking into the bones. I'm losing weight. I look up. That's when the disappointment begins. The flesh of my torso is barely there, it disappeared. 

My ribs are pushed out, their ridges evident. My arms are scrawny. It hurts to prop my elbows on anything. It hurts when those bones press tightly against the skin when they're on the table. My skin is starting to hold onto my bones before it can slip off and away. My collarbones say the same thing. 

The shadows under my eyes are darker than I expect. I sleep less than average. They're starting to appear because I'm exhausted in every way you can count. They're deeper too. My face is starting to sink in too, my cheekbones sharp and the rosiness of my cheeks dull. I used to assume all that writing is the reason why my hands are slimming. They're paper thin. Under the light of my bedroom, these impurities carved into my body are all I can see in a reflection.

Now is not the time to think. Throwing that reflection away, Mother's voice rings in my ears.

I pull my kimono out of the closet. As I flare it out, pull it over my shoulders, and downwards, I overlap it in the front. I wrap the obi around my waist and pull it tightly. It sits right above my hips. I tie the obi and make sure everything is in place before looking at myself in the mirror once more. It's a plain black color. Then, I begin to comb my hair.

I sit by the window, under the eyes of the moon. I put my hair back carefully with a clip. I put on some makeup. It's been a while since I last wore some.

I pat my face with a sponge, pressing the light powder onto my skin. I put it all around my face and a bit down my neck. I cover my darkening eye bags with concealer. I look paler, but prettier this way. I apply some mascara and a pinkish-red lipstick in a rounded shape on my lips. 

Now, I look like the best version of myself. Before slipping into my shoes, I pull a strand of hair down. I'm sure we'll look presentable as a family. After all, the heir's image is what's most important. If I don't look my best, my family entirely will look dimmer.

I don't feel real for a fraction of a second, almost like I see a flaw in the illusion that stands in my reflection. Rather, I have another spin in my head that accompanies a sharp ring in my ear.