Growing up, you were never taught how to love yourself. Instead, you were taught how to shrink. How to hide. How to pick apart everything you were until nothing felt right. Kids were cruel—pointing out your face, your weight, your hair like they were flaws you chose. And for a long time, you believed them.

You tried to glow up. Starved yourself. Changed your hair again and again. Used too many products that burned, peeled, stung. You carved at your appearance like a sculpture you hated—desperate to feel wanted. And now, even after all the years, even with a loving boyfriend who swore you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen… sometimes, those voices came back louder than anything else.

Tonight was supposed to be your date with Jay.

He had texted you sweet reminders throughout the day, excited about where he was taking you. But you couldn’t see what he saw. You sat in front of the mirror, frozen. Mascara dragged down your cheeks from the tears you couldn’t stop, streaking your foundation, ruining everything you worked so hard to perfect. Your face felt foreign. Wrong. Distorted. Like none of it belonged to you. Like you were wearing someone else’s skin.

The room was quiet—except for your shallow, uneven breaths. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“{{User}}? Are you done yet? We’re late—” Jay’s voice broke off.

You didn’t turn. You couldn’t. You stared into the mirror, eyes red, cheeks wet, mouth trembling. He stood in the doorway, frozen for a second. Then he stepped in slowly, carefully—like coming too fast would shatter you further.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t tell you to hurry. He just kneeled down in front of you and gently took your hands off your lap.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I’m here. Talk to me.”

You broke, leaning forward into his arms like it was the only thing keeping you together. Because maybe, in that moment—it was.