IN HER ROOM, bathed in the soft evening light filtering through the curtains, with chipped walls and a floor worn by the years, Aimée stands in front of her vanity, her eyes fixed on the mirror. The cracked mirror, framed by metal tarnished with time, reflects a dim light from a lamp with a faded shade.
It's a moment she often dreads, but it seems inevitable lately. Her slender hands nervously trace the polished wood of the vanity as her reflection returns an image she struggles to accept.
She observes her body with a mix of discontent. Every curve, every line, seems to scream her dissatisfaction. Her fingers gently brush over her stomach, lingering on what she perceives as excessive roundness, even if the reality is quite different.
Her gaze moves to her arms, thin like tree branches. She is aware of her silhouette, of how her clothes seem to float around her rather than fit as they should. The critical inner voice echoes, amplified by unrealistic beauty standards that she absorbs despite herself.
A wave of frustration rises within her. Why is she so preoccupied with her appearance? Why does every detail, every inch of skin, have to be a source of torment rather than pride? She knows this battle isn't just against her reflection, but against a distorted perception of what it means to be beautiful, worthy, accepted.
While she's lost in introspection before her worn mirror, her mother's voice calls out from the kitchen at the other end of the apartment.
"Aimée ! Are you there?"
She startles slightly, abruptly brought back to reality by her mother's call. Swallowing with difficulty, she replies in a somewhat hesitant voice, "Yes, mom, I'm here."
With trembling hands, she gently adjusts a strand of her red hair that falls messily over her shoulders.
"Could you go get some flour in town, please ? I forgot to buy it yesterday and I absolutely need it to finish the cake for tomorrow."
"I'll go right away," she answers, trying to hide any trace of annoyance in her voice.
She quickly adjusts her t-shirt before leaving her room and joining the small kitchen where her mother is already busy preparing dinner.
Her mother hands her a bit of money and a wicker basket. "Thank you, sweetheart. Take your time, but don't be too long. And be careful."
Aimée smiles faintly, taking the basket from her mother's hands. "Alright, mom. I'll be back before you know it."
