My jet black eyes look back at me, swollen and sunken from the countless nights I laid awake dreaming of him.
If only I was more feminine.
Something about my reflection looks unnerving, yet it feels right at home. This is my first time wearing lipstick, so perhaps this is to be expected.
If only I was more feminine.
Four years, seven months, sixteen days and eighteen hours, that’s how long I’ve known him.
That’s how long I’ve loved him.
Our fathers are childhood friends, they studied in the same school, lived in the same neighborhood, the kind of friendship everyone aches for, but few have the luck to find.
I still remember the day as though it were yesterday. The age old friends had met after years. My father had stayed back in his hometown, while his friend had gotten a job abroad, but after so many years, he had decided to come back. As such it was only right that the families met up.
That was the first time I saw him.
Blue eyes inherited from his mother, and black hair which fell on his face. Somewhat serious looking, but a mischievous smile always tugging at the edge of his lips. His facial structure reminded me of one of those Greek sculptures. Perfect.
I have always been an introvert, but he was the outgoing type. We soon befriended each other, continuing our parents’ legacy.
I look back at my reflection. The eyeliner seems to have made my dark circles more prominent now, maybe I was better off without it.
Maybe if I was more feminine.
He was enrolled into my school, and as luck would have it, we ended up as classmates.
I don’t remember what caused me to fall for him though. Perhaps it was the way his presence would put me at ease Maybe it was the way his sense of humor could diffuse the most serious of situations. But slowly yet surely, for the first time in my life, my heart started beating in a manner which was quite exciting, yet quite terrifying.
I look over my fingernails, now coated with crimson nail polish. All this makeup stuff, it’s uncharted territory for me.
Maybe, just maybe if I was more feminine.
Then one day he told me he liked a girl. I felt as though someone had ever so gently, yet brutally gorged my heart out of my chest. Yet, somehow, someway I had managed to fake a smile, fake an interest and managed to ask him to tell me more.
That was the beginning of my sleepless nights.
I look at the mirror, and a stranger looks back at me. Lipstick, eyeliner, nail polish, and now mum’s favourite backless dress, I almost don’t recognize myself.
Almost, cause even now, I’m nowhere near feminine enough.
After two years of their relationship, and two years of sleepless nights, one fine day they finally broke up. I knew I shouldn’t have felt elated, as his tears ran down my shoulder, but I felt on top of the world. Maybe, just maybe he would notice me now.
I trace my finger down the smooth surface of the mirror, as I look over myself, what I’ve become. Even with all this though, my body betrays me, with its lack of curves and the generic feminity.
Today, ten months after his breakup, I had managed to gather the courage to confess my feelings for him.
He laughed.
He laughed when I told him I loved him.
Then he looked at me.
His smile disappeared.
“Oh shit,” he said. “You were serious?”
I ran away as fast as my legs would carry, with tears streaming down my face at a faster pace.
I look at the mirror again. Perhaps if I was more feminine.
Seemingly with a mind of its own, my hand moves towards the mirror.
A second later I hear the glass shatter.
I pull the glass pieces out of my palm as a solitary drop of blood trickles down my hand.
At the same time the first drop of tear rolls down my face.
I look at myself again, at my coloured nails, at my mother’s favourite dress.
No, I think, as the tears stream down my face in torrents, even if I was more feminine…
He would never love a man.
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