The Girl in the Mirror

I looked in the mirror and saw nothing extraordinary staring back at me. I know I'm not ugly, but I'm not dumb. I see how not just the boys but everyone would turn to my blonder, skinnier, prettier friends.

I'm the average sort of pretty. It's a strange place to be. I blend into the background effortlessly, yet I yearn to be seen. Though, at the same time, I fear that if someone were to see me, not just with eyes that skim the surface but with hearts that dare to dive deeper, they would realize how disgustingly average I am inside and out.

People never used to talk about me. I was so goddamn uninteresting. No one talked about me because there was nothing to be said.

I wasn't the quiet kid in the back of the class who had no friends and never talked. That would be interesting. I wasn't some super genius who constantly got amazing grades but was anti-social; that would be interesting.

I was a nobody.

I would go to class, answer some questions, but not talk too much. I would laugh with friends with a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. My life was so exhaustingly boring.

I got average grades and had an average friend group where I wasn't really friends with anyone in the group, but rather just friends with the group. I had an average home with average parents. I was the human equivalent of mediocrity.

For a while, I tried to compensate for my lack of personality. I learned to do my makeup well and dress nice, but it didn't matter. I was still the same person.

"You're so pretty," he says, using the using the same fingers that have touched so many other girls. ugly girls, pretty girls, big girls, and small girls. "You're so pretty," he says; he doesn't even attempt to make it look as though he were looking at my face with eyes on my chest.

He doesn't really mean that I'm so pretty; what he really means is that I'm pretty enough. "You're so hot," he whispers. Don't call me that, I think to myself. Look into my eyes and call me beautiful. but no one does so. I wear a shirt that makes people look down and say, "You are so hot."

The word doesn't mean anything coming out of his mouth, a mouth that has said the same thing to so many girls that it has lost its meaning. But I don't care because at least he's calling me something.

At least he's noticing me.

So I will latch on to any sweet nothings he whispers in my ear, even though I know that's all they are—nothing. I will crave his love and attention so much that I would be willing to destroy any of us just to feel it.

And will he remember me in 5 minutes? What about 5 weeks? What about 5 years? Will I be significant to him? Will he ever wake up and, before thinking of anything else, imagine my face, my hair, and my eyes? I don't think so. I'm just having a meaningless interaction with him. a temporary solution to his boredom before he gets bored of me as well.

But it's fine. I understand; I mean, I wouldn't want to spend much time with me either. I fear that if I spend too much time with only my thoughts to occupy me, I'll discover something about myself that I don't want to know.

I would rather lose myself in a pit of ignorance and oblivion than dig into the inner workings of this mind of mine, which I find so terribly boring.

For a while, I thought it would be impossible for someone to love me. I have no redeeming characteristics. Really, it would be a red flag if someone were to enjoy my company. But I'm not writing this to bitch and complain about "how awful and sad my life is." That's not what this is about. This is my story—the story of a girl with attachment issues who fell in love with a boy with abandonment issues.

704 words: End of Chapter 1