M

I sit quietly outside, smoking my cigarette. My hands are cold, and my hair is up. I glance down at my white sneakers, now dirty from the rain. My chest aches with every inhale and exhale of smoke. My skin feels oily, and I hate it. I hate being in my own skin. I look at my hands—dry, nails uneven. My puffer jacket is slightly stained from makeup that's starting to fade due to the oil on my face and the damp air. My breath feels heavy. My hair is beginning to curl and frizz from the humidity.

I check my messages—nothing. He still hasn’t texted. I listen to my friend talk about her life and how amazing it is compared to mine. My eyelids feel heavy, and my breath tastes like coffee and tobacco. I want to tell her how much I despise her in that moment and just leave. But I don’t. It’s just my thoughts. Whenever I speak, I make sure to say something funny and slightly unhinged so I can pretend I’m fine, even though all I want to do is grab my things and leave.