This story is about a girl like me. Not me, but someone who is a lot like me. She has a face that I see on shiny metal surfaces and a voice that sounds like an echo when I scream into empty spaces. Her eyes are big; few even call them pretty, but they have lighter dark circles than mine. The texture of our skin is mostly the same; hers a little softer. She walks like me. She slouches a bit, yet her gait is gentler. She’s got her dad’s height and mom’s skin tone, and she hated both, unlike me. She overthinks but never vocalizes it. I try to hear what she’s saying, but she mostly keeps quiet. I haven’t heard her speak often, but when she does, she always knows the right and safest thing to say. She loves deeply but never too much to feel bad about those who don’t deserve her. She is emotional too, just not a fool like me. She cries often, just her reasons are always more valid. She also likes reading, but her interest springs from her desire to learn and change, not to beat people in her class ahead of her. Did you know she also dances, writes, plays, draws, and does everything so confidently? And I barely make it to 9 AM after a long weekend. She wears a full-sleeve coat around her sleeveless top to parties but never questions why. She likes listening as much as I do, but her memory doesn’t suck as much.
Well, she is a lot like me but also a lot different. I guess she’s better. She doesn’t make you uncomfortable asking for space or attention, as I do. When she messes up something, she apologizes way too much, so the moment doesn’t last forever, but I fail every time I try to say sorry more than once. She’s subtler and nicer, and more obedient. She doesn’t hold grudges like me; she has a bigger heart. She even forgives the guys who called her too basic or too much. She is the favorite child; she is unproblematic. She lives in her own bubble, just like I do, but she calls hers Barbie land; mine resembles the real world more. She also likes herself in red but doesn’t mind changing into light pastels when someone says red is too overpowering. She is easy to like and simple to understand. She is not-so-annoying, but I sometimes fall on the other end of the spectrum. She likes her long hair, and I do too. But I guess I also like how I feel nothing when I cut it short.
She doesn’t like being told what to do, just like me, but she always follows through because, you know, right? She enjoys listening as much as I do, but I tend to forget, and her memory doesn’t suck as much. She remembers the stories of people who tried to rebel and failed but I don’t. She doesn’t care much about power because that would go against her nonchalance and makes it seem like she is trying too hard. Well, how can we complain? She is impressive just by “being herself.”
Well, I wonder, she is a lot like a rock, and I am a lot like a paper. She might seem solid and strong on the outside but I am more powerful. She could weigh me down or hurt me in ways that would leave scars but I know that I can always just wrap her up and make her invisible. I know scissors (people) like to cut paper more and rock is what survives the pressure but I still like being a paper, for it gives me the hope of filling the spaces within me with something of my own, something authentic and something precious. And hope is all I live for; she is more into reality.
She and I, we are the same. I also prefer wearing a full-sleeve coat over my sleeveless top, but when I feel too hot, I don’t mind dancing without one.
