(jaylor) don't blame me.

prologue

Mirrors are everywhere. 

I am followed by my own reflection - it never leaves my side. It is like the ghost in the back of the closet that refuses to leave. It's like the monster on your shoulder that tells you that your dress is too tight, or your stomach is too big, or your nose isn't perfect. It's the thing that you're supposed to love but can't.

There's one in just about every room in this apartment and they're haunting me. Maybe that's why I walk around staring at the floor most of the time, or why sometimes, I spend all day convincing myself I'm not hungry. They're something that you are expected to have, but sometimes don't want. 

Sometimes, I don't particularly appreciate looking at myself. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, it's easy to imagine it shattering into a million pieces. Mirrors are barely ever warm, they're barely ever nice to look at. Because no matter who you are, they only point out your flaws. Your eyes are drawn to the things that you hate - the parts that you wish could be fixed with an eraser. 

My bleached hair stares back at me in the bathroom mirror. It stares back at me with mean eyes and a cold smile. Adam walks past the bathroom door, takes a look at me, sitting patiently while having my makeup done, and continues walking past. Once upon a time, he probably would have complimented me. Once upon a time, he would have told me not to be afraid of trying new things - like bleached hair. I've had my bleached hair since the Vogue photoshoot where they wanted nothing more than to give me a 'new look.' Looking back now, I think that, in agreeing to what was such an outgoing proposal, it was the first of many signs that my relationship with Adam was teetering on the edge. 

"Are you excited about the Met?" I'm asked by one of the guys on my makeup team. Daniel's been doing my makeup for events like this for a while now, and he doesn't say it, but I know he doesn't think the lipstick is a good idea. Black - to match the shoes, the detailing on the dress, and the dark, dramatic eye makeup. Fuck, I don't even know what I think of it. I stare at my blue eyes - which are almost being entirely swallowed by the darkness, and I sigh. Am I excited? Am I? Who am I these days? I stop watching my pale face in the mirror and stare over at the bunch of flowers that sit to my right. 
"Yeah," I try my best to fake a smile. "Being yelled at by the photographers is always such fun." Although Adam never admits this - I know the reason he doesn't come with me is that fundamentally, I scare him. The place I hold within the music industry scares him. He'll still congratulate me, still be waiting with open arms at the end of the night... but he still doesn't enjoy my fame. Enjoy the fact that my face, my voice, my words... they're everywhere. They're in all the places I wish they wouldn't be. I think it would be easier if Adam was coming if I didn't have to do the red carpet on my own. 

There's nothing that gives me more anxiety than standing in front of them, the flashing cameras blinding me, trying to make sure that there are no bad photos. That I look good in all of them. Making sure that no one will have anything bad to say about me. Although, this fact is more for myself than anyone else. Because I like to know that people like me. I like to know that I'm liked by the public - but much like my relationship with Adam, my relationship with the rest of the world is shifting. I think it's been shifting for quite some time now. It's been moving slowly - like the melting of the arctic. It's been altering itself ever so slowly that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But I've trained myself to notice it - trained myself to adapt and change myself to make sure they like me again.

When it's finally time to leave, Adam gives me a nod goodbye, telling me not to do anything he wouldn't do, and that he'll wait up for me.

At least I can breathe in this dress. 

At least I can breathe. 

At least this dress doesn't cling too much to my stomach. 

At least my shoes are quite literally strapped to my feet, so they won't fall off. Would that stop me from falling in front of everyone?