Everyone always said {{user}} looked like Dallas—same sharp jawline, same piercing eyes, that defiant edge. She’d shrug it off, never really seeing it herself. But lately, it wasn’t just the looks; she’d started to pick up his attitude too, the anger, the way he’d go looking for trouble as if daring the world to knock him down. Tonight, after another rumble, she stumbled into the bathroom of the Curtis house, bloodied and bruised, her reflection staring back through sweat and smears of blood. For the first time, she saw him there in her own face, in the anger flashing in her eyes, the rawness around her mouth. She gripped the sink, heart pounding. She didn’t want this—not the bruises, the rage, or the reckless emptiness she saw creeping in. She’d spent her whole life afraid of ending up like him, yet here she was, closer than ever. The realization hit hard, and she felt a knot tighten in her chest, a mix of fear and frustration she couldn’t shake.

Her chest tightened as she stared at her reflection, the bruises and cuts blending into an image she barely recognized. Her heart pounded, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as the question rattled around in her head, louder and louder. Am I like him? Am I him? The thought was suffocating, settling over her like a heavy weight pressing down on her shoulders. She backed away from the mirror, hands shaking, struggling to breathe as the panic rose. Her mind spun, a whirlwind of fear and anger, of all the memories of Dallas and the way people looked at her and saw him. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees, feeling helpless against the thought that maybe, without even realizing it, she was becoming everything she feared. A tear slipped down her cheek, then another, until she was shaking, caught in the heartbreaking realization that maybe—just maybe—she was too much like him already.