It'll be fine.
My hands and legs are shaking as I step
Out of the shower.
I'm shivering, even though it's 80 degrees in here.
I drop a wad of hair into the trash can.
It seems like I lose more and more each time.
I wrap a towel around me
Avoiding eye contact with the mirror
and I scurry to my bedroom.
My walls are covered
With posters from all my favorite bands
Christmas lights line the ceiling.
It is my haven.
The only place where my true colors really show.
I lie down on my bed,
Staring at the ceiling,
For the umteenth night in a row.
How can I continue on like this?
I don't remember falling asleep.
But I remember waking up
And as I slid on my T-Shirt,
I notice a change
I hadn't worn a t shirt in over a week
And it is slightly baggier than the last time I wore it.
A smile crosses my lips, for just a moment.
This indicates progress, right?
The smile only lasts for a moment though,
A very small moment.
I head to school.
My usual routine.
Except at lunch,
There was a new chair,
The seat contains a body with an unfamiliar face.
A boy, with straight hair that hangs a little past his ears,
it's Golden brown.
And he has the clearest blue eyes
I have ever seen.
He's so thin, so fragile.
He wears a thin chain necklace with a tiny
Cross on the end.
The necklace ends right before the collar of his black shirt,
with a logo
From some band I've never heard of.
"This is Jake," Samantha says, her eyes
fixated. There is an amber sparkle
In her deep brown eyes.
"I'm Stevie," I say, throwing on my best fake smile.
He turns his head to the side--and smirks?
His--genuine--I think. I think.
Why the smirk?
A wave of confusion sweeps over me, and
I knew it was showing on my face.
"Nice to meet you," he says with an accent.
Not regional, but foreign.
"Oh," I said, "Where are you from?"
"He's from London!" Samantha chirps,
Smiling as if this were the coolest thing
She's ever heard.
I laugh a little,
She gets so excited.
Jake smiles too, and takes a sip from his
Water bottle.
In front of him,
sits a salad.
No dressing, no cheese.
I look from the familiar salad type, back up to him
and meet his gaze.
I shoot him a questioning expression
Him, too?
The smirk holds a little more meaning, though.
Understanding. Lack thereof.
YOU ARE READING
I'm Not Who You Think
Teen FictionBehind every person, there's an untold story. Stevie is just your average girl--or so she makes it seem. Everyday she acts like everything is alright, but behind closed doors she battles with anorexia nervosa and self harm. Her best friend has never...
