I don’t notice it at first.
That’s the part that unsettles me later—the way the change slips in quietly, without announcement, without intention. It happens on a normal morning, the kind that should feel routine by now. I wake before my alarm, the room still dim, Chase’s side of the bed empty because he left sometime in the night again. I don’t check my phone right away. I don’t sigh. I just sit up and swing my legs over the side of the mattress.
I go to the closet.
My hand passes over the usual choices. The safe ones. The clothes I wear when I don’t want to be seen too clearly. Then it stops on a blouse I haven’t worn in weeks. Soft fabric. Clean lines. The kind of thing that makes me stand straighter without trying.
I hesitate.
Why this? I ask myself.
The answer comes too easily. Because you want to.
That should feel empowering. Instead, it makes my stomach twist.
I change anyway.
In the bathroom, the mirror feels too honest. I tilt my head, step closer, then farther back. My body looks the same as it did yesterday. Nothing has changed. And yet everything feels wrong. My hips are too wide today. My stomach too soft. My arms too thin or too thick depending on where I look.
I turn sideways. Regret it immediately.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to my reflection, like it’s a child who won’t listen.
The words don’t land.
I fix my hair. Adjust my collar. Step back again. The girl in the mirror looks confident. Put together. Like someone who knows where she’s going.
It feels like a lie.
On campus, I catch my reflection in the glass doors of the main building. Again—sharp, composed. People look at me as I pass. Not staring. Not whispering. Just noticing.
I feel exposed.
In class, I sit near the front without thinking about it. I answer a question without rehearsing first. Professor Wilson nods, makes a note in the margin of his own papers. The acknowledgment sends a warm, dangerous thrill through me.
I hate that I like it.
Between classes, I run into Ellen.
“You look nice,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“Nice how?” I ask too quickly.
She studies me. “Like you chose yourself this morning.”
My chest tightens. “Is that bad?”
“No,” she says. “Just different.”
Different feels risky.
The rest of the day passes in fragments. Compliments that make me uncomfortable. Glances I can’t tell the meaning of. A constant awareness of my own body, like I’m carrying it wrong.
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with studying.
Chase is there when I walk in, sitting on my bed with his backpack at his feet. He looks up when I enter, eyes flicking over me in a way that’s too sharp to be casual.
“Wow,” he says.
I pause. “What?”
“You look… dressed up.”
“It’s a blouse,” I reply. “For class.”
He watches me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Since when do you dress like that for school?”
I shrug. “Since always?”
“No,” he says. “You usually wear—” He gestures vaguely. “You know. Normal stuff.”
“This is normal.”
“For who?” he asks.
I set my bag down slowly. “What are you implying?”
He leans back against the headboard, arms crossing over his chest. “Nothing. Just… you’ve been different lately.”
“Different how?”
“Trying harder,” he says. “Looking nicer. Acting all confident.”
“That’s a problem?”
“It is when it’s fake.”
The word slices clean.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“You know what I mean,” he continues. “This whole thing. The clothes. The clubs. The grades. It’s like you’re trying to prove something.”
My pulse spikes. “I am proving something. To myself.”
He scoffs. “Or to someone else.”
The accusation lands heavy in the space between us.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He shrugs, but his jaw is tight. “You tell me.”
I stare at him, disbelief creeping in. “You think I’m dressing up for someone?”
“I think you like the attention,” he snaps.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You’re always around that professor. Always talking about school. About how someone noticed you.”
I feel heat rush to my face. “He’s my teacher.”
“Sure,” Chase says. “And I’m supposed to just ignore the way you light up when you talk about him?”
“That’s insane.”
“Is it?” he asks. “Because it feels like you’re slipping away, and you don’t even care.”
“I care,” I say. “I just don’t want to apologize for growing.”
He stands up abruptly. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“You think you’re better than me now.”
The familiar accusation makes my stomach drop.
“That’s not what this is.”
“It’s exactly what it is,” he insists. “You’re leveling up, right? That’s what you want to hear?”
“I want to live,” I say quietly. “I want to feel good about myself without being punished for it.”
He laughs, sharp and bitter. “You think putting on a blouse makes you better?”
“No,” I snap. “I think wanting more doesn’t make me a traitor.”
Silence crashes down between us.
“You didn’t always need this much validation,” he says finally.
“I always needed it,” I reply. “I just stopped pretending I didn’t.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t recognize you.”
The words hurt more than I expect them to.
“I don’t recognize myself either,” I admit. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
He grabs his jacket. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Compete with a version of you that doesn’t need me,” he says.
The door slams behind him.