Short stories and other writings!

Miles

Heyo! This is a story about one of my ocs that are a pretty big part of my fanfic What If It's Us and Only Us (for any who read that book he'll be introduced very soon!) Please enjoy!

From the moment he slipped it over his head and let go to rest upon his chest, it felt snug. A dream come true. The mirror had been his enemy for months, showing him images of someone who was no longer relevant, someone whom the boy had buried ages ago. The color of the cloth closely resembled the pigment of his russet skin.

The straps laid across his shoulders while the fabric hugged his sides, restricting his breathing just slightly at the moment. His chocolate curls no longer draped over his back and shoulder blades to where it would make him itch, instead, it swept his forehead and stopped short behind his ears, his fingers tucking a few straggling strands behind them.

For almost a year, the teen could hardly stand to get close to a mirror, let alone gaze upon the reflection he saw in it because staring back at him was someone he no longer knew; someone he was not. The glass highlighted his hair that grew much too long for a boy, at least as his mind told him. He'd see a girl with hips that his grandmother commented were "perfect for bearing children," not knowing the teen's lack of interest in having his own children. That wasn't where the list of imperfections ended though. The face shape much too feminine, the flowy top and pink skirt his father would force upon him, not that he would mind if it wasn't for the fact that he was made to, not of his own free will. And of course, the slightest bit of bra strap poking out from underneath his shirt, reminding him of what truly made him Lyric.

But now it was different. Now as he glanced at his reflection, he saw his white button-up with overalls atop them. He saw the men's jeans his mother had bought him when she first officially met her son. Sure, they weren't a perfect fit when an outsider glanced at them, but to him, it was the best he had. His brown locks curled at his ears and stopped just above his emerald eyes. Most importantly, he could no longer see the thin, lacy pink bra strap. In fact, nothing was visible anymore. Buried underneath the white cotton fabric top sat his binder. His wonderful, brand new binder.

Now, after months of building resentment and bitterness towards the mirror for showing him the girl he no longer knew, he felt admiration towards the sheet of glass because now, it showed him a reflection of himself. He saw Miles Davies. Not Lyric Davies, not "daddy's girl" or grandma's "baby girl," it was Miles Davies; the sweet, curly-haired mama's boy he was.

She was buried six feet below where she belonged, and Miles stood in front of his bedroom mirror, more alive than he'd ever been.