God forbid he should see her. This imitation. Why can’t he see her when she’s not trying so hard? When the world comes easily to her. Not when her posture is hunched and her eyes scrunched against the brightness the sun is reflecting off of her pages. The fat on her arms is accentuated by the position she writes in. She used to think she was pretty, easily so, now it seemed as if her mind and body want her to give up, no matter how much she’s starved, stretched, and preened it. The hair would never uncurl its stubborn ends; the mountain range of her spine would never stand straight no matter how much of her pride she put into her shoulders. The dullness and fatigue in her eyes had replaced past liveliness and would not leave. The circles under her eyes weren’t too dark, but her eyes had become even more so. Lifeless beneath brows nearly always knit together in a melancholy pain. It wasn’t sharp. No. More of an ache—a hollow, which made her think she was always hungry, which in turn, made her feel fat. This ever increasing anxiety about her body made her lips thin and tight, thus squaring her face even more, and making her cheeks look rounder, making her think she was becoming fat again. All of this one vicious cycle, but she cannot deny it even to herself, she is the one so guilty of undoing herself into such ugliness, no one else.