You’ve been standing in front of the mirror for thirty minutes.

taking pictures, then deleting them, then taking more, then editing those ones.

As a ridiculously famous singer, you have to pay attention to these things.

Your fiancée Zendaya is humming along to her headphones, completely oblivious. She’s boiling Mac and cheese, the steam wafting through the air over to you.

She’s happy for finally ending her press tour, free to come home and do what really matters, be with you.

the more you analyze yourself, what you could change, the worse you feel.

you give a singular pinch to your thigh, your face crumpling in self-disgust.

there’s nothing wrong with you, the reasonable part of your brain knows that.

but somewhere, deep in your heart, you can’t help but wish you were just a little skinnier.

You bare your teeth in the mirror, finger brushing over them.

why can’t they just be a little whiter?

why can’t your hair be a little less frizzy? Your waist just a tiny bit thinner?

Zendaya’s voice flows through the air as she calls out,

“Baby, dinner is almost ready,”

You don’t even look up, pulling your shirt up to analyze the abs on your stomach.

“Mmmhm,”

Your voice is quiet, she can’t hear it.

A few seconds later, she comes in, bare feet cold on the wood floor of your shared bedroom.

she braces her hands on the doorframe, leaning into the room and smiling.

“Hey, did you hear me? Mac and cheese will be ready in like… two seconds tops.”

Zendaya’s lips fall.

it isn’t the first time she’s seen you do this. Judge yourself until you’re crying, then pick up three new Pilates classes before going on tour.

“Baby?”

She walks closer to you, resting her hands on your shoulders, looking at you through the full body mirror.

her hands gather your hair, smoothing it down and playing very softly with it.

she hates seeing you do this, even more she hates that no amount of praise can make you see yourself differently.