You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyes flicking over every little imperfection. Any scars, scabs, beauty marks...

You could just never seem to love yourself. Atleast, not with this imperfect body.

Of course, not a single soul knew about your body dysmorphia. God, wouldn't that just be horrible? Being told over and over again you're perfect the way you are... it's never new, you've heard it before.

The only way you were comfortable was wearing whatever could hide you, or whatever reminded you of him.

Which is why you stood there, in his room, one of Syntax's spare lab coats hanging loosely on your body. He'd kill you if he saw this, you thought to yourself.

The one man who you could (ironically) never get to open up, the same one you always fought with, was the one that brought you comfort.

Even if it was just his clothes.