Do you ever see the girl in the mirror?

I do.

And every time,

it feels like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Her hair is nasty again.

No matter how hard she tries—

washes it, brushes it, smooths it down—

it never looks right.

It always feels like proof

that she can’t even get the simple things correct.

She stares at herself

with the same disappointment

She's learned to expect from others.

She looks so… ordinary.

So painfully forgettable.

And somehow still

too much.

She wonders why anyone talks to her.

Why does anyone stay?

She waits for the moment

they realize

She's not worth the effort.

She hates speaking in class.

Not because she doesn’t know the answer—

but because speaking means eyes.

And eyes mean being seen.

And being seen is dangerous.

When people look at her,

her chest tightens.

Her thoughts scatter.

Her voice feels too loud,

too shaky,

too wrong.

She imagines them noticing everything—

her face,

her body,

the way she talks,

the way she exists.

So she stays quiet.

She shrinks.

She tells herself

it’s better this way.

She tells herself

Silence is safer.

She practices smiles in the mirror.

Practices laughs

that won’t sound awkward.

Practices conversations

she’ll never actually have.

She studies people—

how they react,

what makes them comfortable,

what makes them stay.

She adapts.

She adjusts.

She becomes whatever is needed

at that moment.

And somewhere along the way,

she loses track

of who she was supposed to be.

No one knows her true self.

Not really.

She’s hidden it too well.

Layer by layer,

mask by mask,

version by version

crafted for survival.

Sometimes she wonders

if there ever was a true self

to begin with.

She apologizes for everything.

For talking.

For not talking.

For being in the way.

For existing at all.

She learned early

that being easy

meant being loved.

That blame was easier than conflict.

That keeping the peace

was more important

than telling the truth.

So she says “sorry”

even when she’s hurting.

Even when she’s right.

Even when none of it was her fault.

She looks at her reflection

and starts listing flaws

like they’re facts.

Don’t smile with your teeth.

Too crooked.

Too real.

Don’t draw attention.

Don’t take up space.

Don’t give them a reason

to look longer than necessary.

She searches herself

for something to like.

Something redeeming.

Something that makes her feel

worthy of being seen.

She finds nothing.

And still—

She wakes up every day.

She gets dressed.

She shows up.

She becomes what the world asks of her

again and again

until she barely recognizes

the girl in the mirror.

And maybe that’s the saddest part—

not that no one else truly knows her,

but she doesn’t either.

And she’s still trying to survive

inside a version of herself

she built

just to be accepted.