1k Oneshots

Idontwannabeyouanymore

[A girl who doesn't want to be herself anymore, but wants to be with him]

Words: 1106

・❥・

My eyes cast a glance at the reflective glass as I move to walk through the bathroom to my bedroom, stopping for a moment to look at the person staring back at me.

There's a face, sunken down into whatever mush of a person there was, with light blue eyes and bleached hair, bangs covering their forehead, makeup plastered like a pigsty with a cat liner dark in comparison to the light-toned skin; they have a wide bridge with a wide top to their nose, a ring sunken through the middle of it, hooped around to the other side because their friend told them to when they were younger and they didn't want to get rid of it, feeling alone without something piercing their skin. Their face seemed incapable of smiling, a frown of the thick bottom lip yet a thin upper bit, teeth turned in all the wrong directions.

Bleached hair with bangs, concealer covering blemishes, and a shiny pearl necklace hiding the lack of chest, cover the person looking back at me, timid in the mirror. She's blinking quickly, looking down at the tight, light green dress that hugged her figure, outlining her thick ribcage and wide hips, wide shoulders out on show with a tan line from being out in the sun.

Something ran down the person's cheek, her hand moved upward to reach for it, and I felt a sticky wet substance on my index finger.

The person looking at me turned to the side, showing a stomach bulging out from the tight dress until she sucked it back in, her chest sticking out more while doing it, the comfortability of it normal to her. 

It's me in the mirror, watching as my hands follow the movement I do in front of me, raising one arm up and then the other, showing my freshly shaved underarms. I take a deep breath. It just doesn't feel like me.

Everything about the person in the mirror was the whole reason I normally kept a blanket covering it, from eating when I am alone, to forgetting about looks with others when they're around me and we're having fun.

I sigh. Feeling warm wetness run down my cheeks, my eyes getting red in the mirror as I walk closer, leaning close to the glass and exhaling a sob as my figure leans over, my height letting my stomach peer over the bathroom sink.

Maybe I shouldn't eat.

He'll be mad

Maybe I shouldn't live.

But you can't see him.

He wouldn't miss me.

Yes he would.

No one would.

You're right.

I shake my head and sob, leaning my head against the reflective glass and letting it out for the second time that day. Repeating over and over and over again that it wasn't the only thing stopping me. Nothing was going to be right.

But in half an hour I'll be fine. It doesn't matter if I break down for now if I step into a deep sense of madness and depression and let it override my senses, take control of my being, and overpower everything inside of me. It'll be fine. I'll be gone one day and everything will be better then, at least.

I scoff at myself.

I'll never get to the point of telling myself I love me, my mirror has heard it all before. The most known one; "I don't wanna be you anymore," where I stand there and just stare for a minute.

I've spent years looking at myself this way, watching everything move by me as my body changes in ways I shouldn't have to witness, nothing anyone should witness. Something I should show, never tell.

My hands grow cold and I press one to the glass, pressing against it. Maybe if I press down hard enough on my hand I'll enter a different world, or, maybe I'll hurt myself by breaking the glass and have it all fall on me, grasping against my pale, sunburnt skin and holding me down, digging into my skin and collecting by itself into an argument of self-harm.

I close my eyes. A much better view.

Something grabs me and I turn around, meeting face to face with him, who looks me dead in the eyes and smiles at me. His face shines against the light, the small pimples and blemishes only making him more handsome under the dark light in the bathroom. His skin is warm against the outline of my dress, and I remember, beginning to start sucking in my stomach, feeling the dress loosen up against me.

"If 'I love you was a promise, would you break it, if you're honest?" I asked him, getting a shake of his head in response.

"Tell me what you're thinking, babe."

"I don't wanna be me anymore."

I sob, crawling to the ground, and hear everything fall apart around me. He grabs onto me tighter and just holds me, letting me know he's not going to leave me alone. He hasn't yet, but one day he will. He'll take off when he realizes that my mood swings hurt him too, and I'm not the only one.

Everything in life is too much, it hurts to talk, hurts to breathe, hurts to be myself. I'm not myself, I'm not even sure who that is anymore, who to even think it would be, or where to start looking.

But he's here with me, even if he leaves, he'll make the time we have together better one way or the other.

"You're perfect, okay."

I shake my head and he gently grabs it with both hands, cradling my face. He nods, making me look at his green eyes, watching the way he looks at me.

"Baby you're perfect to me, no matter how you are."

"Tight dresses that make me a whore." I think aloud. "Thinking these thoughts, babe, I don't wanna be me anymore."

"I want you to be yourself."

"I don't know who that is anymore." I shake my head. "It's too much."

"I love you."

I can't respond to him how I would react to myself, so I say the truth, though the one thing I feel like might be too much: "I love you, too," my hands fumble to hug him back, his arms squeezing me, trapping my inside his body until I'm done crying and my mood has lifted.

Easy as that, a hug can do it for someone. It took a moment and as we were standing up, he smiled and I forgot about my episode.

I might not know who I am or who I or anyone is going to be or where we're going to end up, and as much as I don't wanna be me anymore, I want to be with him. He's the reason I'm alive, and I'm proud to admit that.