All I’d ever wanted was someone to love me that much. To care for me that much. I stared at the Vizio panel in a state of numb acceptance, my breath coming in short exhalations as sweat beaded my forehead.
‘I must look like I’m ready to die. I’m very pallid.’ I thought.
Several weeks ago I found myself single again. Single and in the city. For one such as me – prone to the grey of isolation and the resignation of self-enacted serotonin release from things like first-person shooters or successful forum trolling – a relationship, whenever I fell into one, was always with the wrong person. This one lasted for a few weeks and quickly turned into soggy toilet paper.
‘I am very white, very pale. And my bones show through my elastic skin. I am unattractive.’
I was used to rejection. Perpetually shorter than most girls my age and with thin black hair that limped from my scalp and dry toe webbing that cracked and blistered every summer.