She looks at herself in the mirror. She stares closely at her features. They are the same as they’ve always been, yet she does not recognise herself. Her usually bright blue eyes are now dull with sadness. Her brow is wrought with worry. Her cheeks are hot and damp from hours of crying. Her face holds no expression, like she is not even there. She feels like an outsider in her own body. She is trapped, trapped in this body and this life and she doesn’t know what to do. She is the only one who can change her life, but how can she do that when she has lost all control of herself? When she doesn’t even know who she is anymore? She sits in front of the mirror, slowly applying beauty products and make up to her sallow skin. Creating an illusion of happiness, of normality, so that society accepts her – at least the version she presents to them. She paints herself until she feels almost good about the portrait she’s created. Next, she drags a hairbrush through her tangled mane and tries to restore it to a presentable state. After blow-drying, straightening and applying more products, she is somewhat content with her efforts. She has to be careful not to mess this up now though, one false move and the illusion could shatter.

 

She stands up and examines her whole body. She is disgusted with the figure in front of her. She works so hard to be skinny – spinning, yoga, a vegan diet – but never seems to achieve anything. Her curves won’t budge. She wishes she could just shed her skin and start over in a new body. She sighs, pushing this childish thought aside, and hides her grotesque shape with an oversized sweatshirt and black jeans.

 

She leaves her apartment and starts her journey to work walking towards the metro. She blasts music in her ears to stop any thoughts filling her head, instead drowning them in angry American rap. She walks with purpose, taking long strides towards her destination, yet she feels like she has no purpose in her life. Everything she does is for appearances. She walks on autopilot, not absorbing her surroundings or engaging with the life buzzing around her. She doesn’t even register people on the street; she feels isolated and alone. She is an outsider. But was it ever any other way? Did she ever really have a choice?

 

She gets onto the train and sits by the window, staring aimlessly out at the city passing by her. She tries so hard to fit in, but she knows that she can never show her real self, her raw, unedited self; they would rip her to shreds, and pick her apart until there was nothing left. She’d tried it once, when she first moved back to England. She’d lived in a bubble in the desert of Abu Dhabi and had no idea how different her life would be in the rural English countryside. She arrived with her natural, carefree spirit, accepting of everyone and open to change. She was greeted with hatred, cruelty, close-minded views and utter discontent. She retreated into herself until she was only a shell. Then she did what was necessary to survive amongst these beasts; she became a clone of them. She mimicked their actions and voiced their opinions, keeping her own firmly buried inside. She perfected her act and they accepted her as one of them. Every night she would cry and hope with everything she had that she would never lose sight of who she really was. This was the start of her double life.

 

She gets to work and stands outside for a minute or two before she feels ready to face the chaos inside. She applies her well-practised smile and walks into the building. She makes her way through the restaurant, greeting people every few seconds. They all ask her how she is. None of them actually want to know the answer. She smiles harder and replies that she’s “good”, and that her weekend was “great”. No one probes any further; no one cares what she does when she’s not there. She may as well not even exist outside of those four walls. She presses the button for the lift and steps inside. The doors close and the smile slips off her face. She is exhausted already, and she still has eight hours to go. She catches a glimpse of her distorted reflection in the dirty metal lift panel. She looks away, embarrassed at the lie she is portraying to the world. She can feel her eyes welling with a fresh batch of  tears, threatening to ruin her perfect disguise and expose her for what she really is.

 

She changes into her work uniform, further distancing herself from anything she knows. This is her reality now. She has no connection to this job, has no desire to serve people and put up with their shit, but it pays the bills. She feels so lost. The longer she works here, the more she forgets that she has any skills at all, dumbing herself down to avoid going mad with her brain’s idleness. There used to be a fire burning inside of her, fuelling her through all of her projects and accomplishments, but that has long since burnt out, and she seems to be having trouble reigniting it. She gets used to the cold, empty feeling, and after a while can’t imagine ever being passionate about anything again.

 

She makes small talk with her colleagues to keep the thoughts away, forming fake bonds and making fake friends. She does not aspire to be one of them, but again, she knows that she won’t survive on her own. She needs allies. She trusts no one, but knows it is better to have people believe you are on their side than to completely alienate yourself. It seems to be working; so far no one has suspected that she doesn’t belong.

 

Suddenly, in between serving tables, she feels a crack in her façade. She is hit with an overwhelming feeling of dread and hopelessness. She needs to escape. She locks herself in the toilet and howls silently for five minutes straight. What is she doing here? She doesn’t fit in, she never will, nor does she want to. She is tired of pretending. She looks at her reflection in the mirror. This time she recognises herself. After concealing herself from the world for so long, she has almost forgotten who she is. But she is still there, staring sadly back at herself, begging to be let out again. Maybe this time will be different, maybe they’ll accept me for who I am, she thinks naively, before fixing her face and removing any sign of her breakdown. She emerges from the bathroom, everything safely bottled up inside again, and applies her trademark smile, ready to face her reality.