Member-only story
There’s Something I Can’t Tell You
And I think I like it that way
When we first meet, you still have your long blonde hair, tied up into a ponytail. Strands are escaping, but I don’t notice. You are standing up, he is nodding eagerly, and I feel a bitter pang inside my chest. A sharp hit against a hollow gourd. And then you read a story. It wasn’t good, I think snidely. I used to write better.
When you stand there on the stage, cadmium red flushed across your face as you soak in their cries and applause. Your hair is probably perfect. Your dress is blue and your legs are slender soap slivers, molded into shape by some divine hand. Your face is torn open by your smile, and I hate you. I whisper that into my phone as I stumble out of the hall.
My feet are cramped and aching inside the too-pretty shoes I have caged them in. I could’ve been that, I tell the wavy red line, which spikes in reaction to waves from my voice. If I had been normal, if there wasn’t something wrong in my head, I could be better than you. The lines keep convulsing, and I spill my tears into them. I hate her, I confess. I hate myself. I hate both of us so much.
When I see you next year, your hair is cut short into a bob that hugs the sides of your head. I like it. It feels like we are both new people. You, with your close-cut bob. Me, with my half-up…
