josh

Of course, he doesn’t really give a damn what you wear. You could be dressed in a potato sack and Leon would still think you’re the most gorgeous person in the world. What bothers him is that he knows you loved those jeans. You had smiled in them.

He hasn’t seen that smile lately.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Not at first. He figures that it’s not his place to do so. Maybe you’ve decided that you don’t like them. That happens, he imagines.

Then, one rainy night, he finds you standing in the bathroom. Your back is turned to him, turning over to look at your body in the mirror. Your hands hover over your hips. Over your chest. Your sides and your thighs and every part of your body seems to get catalogued. Your hands tug once at your shirt. Then again.You pinch softly at your side. Your expression changes.

It’s tiny, but he knows you well enough to see it.

Your lips tug downwards for a moment, eyes closing as you let out a small sigh. He knows that look. It’s a mixture of disappointment and frustration and everything wrong.

Leon leans quietly against the doorway.

“…Whatcha doing?”

You jump, your hands dropping to your sides so fast that your palms make a slapping noise against your thighs. 

You put on a smile. It’s so fake that it makes his heart hurt.

“Nothing! Just getting ready for bed.”

A step forward, his lips pursing.

“Honey…” His hand reaches out, offering itself to you, “Tell me the truth.”

Your smile falls. It’s like a switch has been flipped.

Eyes downturning to the floor, you murmur, “... I look weird lately.”

Leon wants to say a lot of things. A mixture of ‘no’ and ‘you’re beautiful’ and ‘what’s wrong?’. But he knows what the problem is. You’ve told him about it before.

“I dunno, Lee. Sometimes I just look in the mirror and everything looks wrong.”

You had described it as wanting to unzip your skin and step out of it. Like your body wasn’t familiar anymore. How it changed every time you looked in the mirror, to the point where you weren’t really sure what you truly looked like anymore.

He steps beside you, angling you towards the mirror to where he can see you both in the reflection.

“…You know something weird?”

You glance up. He shrugs, leaning his head to lay atop yours. “There are days I look in the mirror and all I can see are things I used to look like. Twenty one.” A small smile. “Or twenty-seven. Or before.”

His eyes drift. “And sometimes I look at myself and all I can think is…” His jaw shifts. “…that guy disappeared somewhere.”

You look at him. He finally turns. His expression stays easy.

“But when you look at me?”

You nod slowly. His mouth lifts.

“You never talk about any of that.”

You frown. “What?”

“You don’t look at me and see what changed.” His eyes soften. “You look at me and still act like I’m me.”

His hand reaches out, taking yours and holding it. His skin is warm and rough against your palm. His thumb brushes your knuckles, just like always. A routine that’s never really faded.

“…I think maybe your brain forgot to do that for you.”

Your face shifts, head turning to look away from the mirror as your eyes go teary. His hand squeezes yours once. A firm hold, dragging you out of your brain.

“You don’t have to believe me tonight.” His voice stays quiet. “But I’d like if you borrowed my eyes for a while.”

His smile turns crooked. “Mine seem to like you a lot more.”

Your laugh comes out watery. It makes his shoulders loosen, a breath finally releasing itself from his lungs.

He nudges your shoulder. “…C’mon.”

“What?” You sniffle.

He starts walking, guiding you along. “You’re making tea with me.”

“That’s your solution?”

He glances back. “No. But I think we both know staring harder wasn’t working.”