This is my very first story! It’s quite short and goes for at least 4000+ words.

I had taken inspiration from a prompt I found:

"Your hair, features and skin are gradually disappearing. What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

I took this prompt and turned the story into something else completely! I really like what I did with the whole plot, and I hope to improve my writing more and more!

Hope you enjoy it!

Chapter Three:

I don’t know when I started running, but I reached the building I lived in (right next to my mom’s) and hurriedly ran up the stairs and into my studio flat. I threw my bag somewhere and took my phone out. I tried finding out what this could mean, what these cracks on my arm meant and what I could do about.

All of a sudden, Julie’s notebook came into my mind. She had a diagram, where she had drawn small circles, and inside them, like a timeline, were cracks, going from light to dark to just breaking in.

I was then filled with both fear and hope. Julie might know what to do.

I called her number, waiting for her to pick up anxiously.

Now, you may be wondering why I didn’t call the ambulance as yet or called a doctor.

Look, if I could do that without being immediately judged, I would do it. But, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of a bunch of doctors even if my condition is quite weird and concerning. The doctors of this world are quite conservative, who have major judgment issues. I’ve always been judged by doctors if I’ve never answered ‘correctly’ when they’ve asked me questions like ‘What would you do in ‘x’ situation?’ or ‘What exactly is your tolerance for ‘x’? So I resort to natural solutions. Right now, the natural solution is calling Julie.

“Hello?” Julie asked.

“Julie! Hi! Uh, well, something’s wrong with me. I got these cracks on my hand, and it feels like its glass, and I’m really scared. I saw these drawings on your book which made me think you’d be able to help me so here I am, asking you. But if you don’t want to I totally get it like-”

“-Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hold up! What do you mean by cracks on your hand? When did this happen?” she interrupted me. Wisely stopping my anxious rant of apologies. “Also, where do you live? Let me come see you.”

“I live in the building next to that Arabilla building, come to 203,” I took a deep breath. “So, I had first felt a part of my skin go dry like somehow all air or moisture had been sucked out. This happened when I was on the way home, in the metro. Then I had touched it, wondering what it was, but then it felt like glass! And then I pulled away cause I didn’t want to break my hand…I guess. I don’t know what’s going on, do you?” Fear was climbing up my body. I felt myself go cold, and then I tried to quickly calm myself down. I thought that if I made myself go cold anymore, the cracks would spread faster.

Turns out, I was right. The cracks on my arm had already spread over my forearm, feeling emptier by the minute. Fear was clutching at my heart now.

Apparently, confusion, mixed with anxiety, and fear for your life isn’t the best combo for little ol’ me.

I could hear Julie’s huffs as she ran out of her house. We had both realized that we lived quite close to each other during our conversation. She lived at least 5 minutes away from my home.

“Well, right now, I can only think of one thing that’s happening to you, and it’s very rare,” she said, emphasizing on the ‘very’. “You’re experiencing a situation where you find out who you are as a person, but physically.”

“What?”

“It’s gonna tell you who you are, but in a really artistic way! You’re going through some weird shit! You’ll see what I mean later. I’m getting close, stay calm!” she cut the call.

“Okay. Yeah, I can do that.” I said to myself.

No, I cannot do that.

This is weird. Though not odd, I’ve read enough of mythology to know that this was some extra special magical stuff back-in-the-day. 

By back-in-the-day, I mean ‘B.C’ back-in-the-day. Like, Gods would bless most people to have the ability to know how to describe themselves in words. But some wouldn’t. That’s basically the entire story in short.

People like me weren’t mentioned much in history. Or maybe our history was erased. Maybe it was never even documented. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t.

Stay calm you idiot! Listen to Julie!

Chapter Two:

I told her a few things. I told her all about Julie and how we got along well.

What I didn’t tell her was about what we were talking about, or Julie’s notebook.

My mother, even though she still has hopes for me, is a firm believer that people who don’t know how to describe themselves in words, are broken.

It breaks my heart, but I don’t know what to say to her. She’s a really nice person, and a great mom…it’s just that I can’t tell her my real problems or what’s going on with me without facing the fact that I am, in her words, broken.

It’s what distanced us, I guess. Knowing that my mom wouldn’t even accept me for who I am left me a little empty inside.

It was hallowing.

Sometimes I’d feel that hole in me widen, without making a sound, but making me feel even worse. Other times it was this pinprick of a needle, startling at first, but a forgotten hum in the background a few moments later. I suppose that’s why I never knew what exactly I felt about a lot of things. I had this on and off relationship with emotions. Sometimes, I’d feel their strength so much that it would bring tears to my eyes. Other times, I’d feel quite the opposite, responding with a nonchalant shrug of disdain.

“Okay, I’ll pick them up,” I answered my mom, who had just asked me to pick up eggs and a half-loaf of bread from the grocery store on the way to her home. “Yeah, yeah. Okay! I won’t forget! Okay, fine. Bye.”

I ended the call. And then I looked outside the window of the bus. It was reaching the metro station, so I moved to the front to check-out as the bus pulled to a stop.

At the same time, I took out my earplugs and put the music on. Nothing like a sweet melody to ignore the bunch of people around you.

It’s not like I don’t like to interact with people, it’s just that I’m self-conscious about a lot of things I do. It could be me standing way too close to a stranger, or my music being so loud that I feel like everyone can hear it, and everyone was glaring at my head – I’m uncomfortable about the littlest things. Even if the cabin is so crowded I just can’t help but be close to people, and my music is at the healthy volume for my ears.

But of course, I, being a star actress, manage to hide my discomfort like a spy. I shift through the crowds like a shadow, always listening, but never there. I was like a soft whisper, never a face to express, but a face none the less. I was -

Okay, I’ll stop now. I have anxiety. Okay? Okay.

I entered the train, moving to a spot closest to the exit.

It was going to take at least 4 minutes for me to reach my station, so I let myself drift among the sounds filling my ears.

Often, I am upset,

That I cannot, fall in love but I guess,

That avoids the stress of falling out of it,

I liked this song. It was a soft song. It’s the kind that leaves you swaying along the strums of the guitar, and the little beat the lyrics have. Songs like this are what usually stay with me the longest because I just can’t get tired of it. Also, I don’t play it on repeat.

“Next stop is, Al Qiyadah Metro station.” the voice over the inter-com pushed me out of my thoughts. As I moved towards the doors of the cabin to wait for the stop, I felt a small part of my skin go dry. It was a funny feeling like the air had been sucked out.

I looked down at my left arm and saw light cracks on it. Instinctively, I moved my other hand over it.

I felt like I was touching porcelain. My skin was no longer there, it felt cold and weak.

I felt the rise of a bunch of voices in my head, some telling me to scream, some telling me to immediately look up the meaning of this, some telling me to stop touching the damn thing. I moved my fingers away quickly. I let out the breath of air I had been holding and stepped out of the train, hurried down the stairs, checked-out, left the station and began to walk the way I’ve walked a hundred times before. This time, a little more briskly.

I was becoming more aware of the dry part becoming colder and colder and then spreading out over the rest of the area of skin surrounding it.

So! This story is a love story,,, and I had a great time writing it!

So it's done!!!

This was the first story I have ever written, and I loved writing it! Sure, I do have doubts about ways I could've handled the plot and characters, and I was constantly second-guessing myself, but I finally managed to pull my shit together and finish this story.

When I was writing this story I wanted to understand how it was writing a parallel to our world and what is happening in it. The fear my protagonist faces in this story and how they don't want to tell their parent about something that is a part of themselves was (hopefully) a clear parallel to people a part of the LGBTQIA+ community and the fear they face in their daily lives.

I believe that this story was a good start to practising my writing. I do want to become some sort of author in the future (I have SO many ideas!!!! But I can't write!!!) And I really hope to keep writing for a long time!

Chapter Three:

I don’t know when I started running, but I reached the building I lived in (right next to my mom’s) and hurriedly ran up the stairs and into my studio flat. I threw my bag somewhere and took my phone out. I tried finding out what this could mean, what these cracks on my arm meant and what I could do about.

All of a sudden, Julie’s notebook came into my mind. She had a diagram, where she had drawn small circles, and inside them, like a timeline, were cracks, going from light to dark to just breaking in.

I was then filled with both fear and hope. Julie might know what to do.

I called her number, waiting for her to pick up anxiously.

Now, you may be wondering why I didn’t call the ambulance as yet or called a doctor.

Look, if I could do that without being immediately judged, I would do it. But, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of a bunch of doctors even if my condition is quite weird and concerning. The doctors of this world are quite conservative, who have major judgment issues. I’ve always been judged by doctors if I’ve never answered ‘correctly’ when they’ve asked me questions like ‘What would you do in ‘x’ situation?’ or ‘What exactly is your tolerance for ‘x’? So I resort to natural solutions. Right now, the natural solution is calling Julie.

“Hello?” Julie asked.

“Julie! Hi! Uh, well, something’s wrong with me. I got these cracks on my hand, and it feels like its glass, and I’m really scared. I saw these drawings on your book which made me think you’d be able to help me so here I am, asking you. But if you don’t want to I totally get it like-”

“-Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hold up! What do you mean by cracks on your hand? When did this happen?” she interrupted me. Wisely stopping my anxious rant of apologies. “Also, where do you live? Let me come see you.”

“I live in the building next to that Arabilla building, come to 203,” I took a deep breath. “So, I had first felt a part of my skin go dry like somehow all air or moisture had been sucked out. This happened when I was on the way home, on the metro. Then I had touched it, wondering what it was, but then it felt like glass! And then I pulled away cause I didn’t want to break my hand…I guess. I don’t know what’s going on, do you?” Fear was climbing up my body. I felt myself go cold, and then I tried to quickly calm myself down. I thought that if I made myself go cold anymore, the cracks would spread faster.

Turns out, I was right. The cracks on my arm had already spread over my forearm, feeling emptier by the minute. Fear was clutching at my heart now.

Apparently, confusion, mixed with anxiety, and fear for your life isn’t the best combo for little ol’ me.

I could hear Julie’s huffs as she ran out of her house. We had both realized that we lived quite close to each other during our conversation. She lived at least 5 minutes away from my home.

“Well, right now, I can only think of one thing that’s happening to you, and it’s very rare,” she said, emphasizing on the ‘very’. “You’re experiencing a situation where you find out who you are as a person, but physically.”

“What?”

“It’s gonna tell you who you are, but in a really artistic way! You’re going through some weird shit! You’ll see what I mean later. I’m getting close, stay calm!” she cut the call.

“Okay. Yeah, I can do that.” I said to myself.

No, I cannot do that.

This is weird. Though not odd, I’ve read enough of mythology to know that this was some extra special magical stuff back-in-the-day. By back-in-the-day, I mean ‘B.C’ back-in-the-day. Like, Gods would bless most people to have the ability to know how to describe themselves in words. But some wouldn’t. That’s basically the entire story in short.

Our people weren’t mentioned much in history. Or maybe our history was erased. Maybe it was never even documented. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t.

Stay calm you idiot! Listen to Julie!

Chapter Two:

I told her a few things. I told her all about Julie and how we got along well.

What I didn’t tell her was about what we were talking about, or Julie’s notebook.

My mother, even though she still has hopes for me, is a firm believer that people who don’t know how to describe themselves in words, are broken.

It breaks my heart, but I don’t know what to say to her. She’s a really nice person, and a great mom…it’s just that I can’t tell her my real problems or what’s going on with me without facing the fact that I am, in her words, broken.

It’s what distanced us, I guess. Knowing that my mom wouldn’t even accept me for who I am left me a little empty inside.

It was hallowing.

Sometimes I’d feel that hole in me widen, without making a sound, but making me feel even worse. Other times it was this pinprick of a needle, startling at first, but a forgotten hum in the background a few moments later. I suppose that’s why I never knew what exactly I felt about a lot of things. I had this on and off relationship with emotions. Sometimes, I’d feel their strength so much that it would bring tears to my eyes. Other times, I’d feel quite the opposite, responding with a nonchalant shrug of disdain.

“Okay, I’ll pick them up,” I answered my mom, who had just asked me to pick up eggs and a half-loaf of bread from the grocery store on the way to her home. “Yeah, yeah. Okay! I won’t forget! Okay, fine. Bye.”

I ended the call. And then I looked outside the window of the bus. It was reaching the metro station, so I moved to the front to check-out as the bus pulled to a stop.

At the same time, I took out my earplugs and put the music on. Nothing like a sweet melody to ignore the bunch of people around you.

It’s not like I don’t like to interact with people, it’s just that I’m self-conscious about a lot of things I do. It could be me standing way too close to a stranger, or my music being so loud that I feel like everyone can hear it, and everyone was glaring at my head – I’m uncomfortable about the littlest things. Even if the cabin is so crowded I just can’t help but be close to people, and my music is at the healthy volume for my ears.

But of course, I, being a star actress, manage to hide my discomfort like a spy. I shift through the crowds like a shadow, always listening, but never there. I was like a soft whisper, never a face to express, but a face none the less. I was -

Okay, I’ll stop now. I have anxiety. Okay? Okay.

I entered the train, moving to a spot closest to the exit.

It was going to take at least 4 minutes for me to reach my station, so I let myself drift among the sounds filling my ears.

Often, I am upset,

That I cannot, fall in love but I guess,

That avoids the stress of falling out of it,

I liked this song. It was a soft song. It’s the kind that leaves you swaying along the strums of the guitar, and the little beat the lyrics have. Songs like this are what usually stay with me the longest because I just can’t get tired of it. Also, I don’t play it on repeat.

“Next stop is, Al Qiyadah Metro station.” the voice over the inter-com pushed me out of my thoughts. As I moved towards the doors of the cabin to wait for the stop, I felt a small part of my skin go dry. It was a funny feeling like the air had been sucked out.

I looked down at my left arm and saw light cracks on it. Instinctively, I moved my other hand over it.

I felt like I was touching porcelain. My skin was no longer there, it felt cold and weak.

I felt the rise of a bunch of voices in my head, some telling me to scream, some telling me to immediately look up the meaning of this, some telling me to stop touching the damn thing. I moved my fingers away quickly. I let out the breath of air I had been holding and stepped out of the train, hurried down the stairs, checked-out, left the station and began to walk the way I’ve walked a hundred times before. This time, a little more briskly.

I was becoming more aware of the dry part becoming colder and colder and then spreading out over the rest of the area of skin surrounding it.

Chapter One: 

I was at my second job. I’m pretty sure I will soon have to go to my third (and last) job soon enough. Stifling a yawn, I rubbed my eyes. It’s not fun being a cashier in a store like Tea Top.

What even is that name? I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to know either.

I looked over to my bag hanging by the kitchen door. My mom hadn’t called in the afternoon, and I can’t call her without my boss finding out. I was getting pretty worried, but that’s what I do all the time. Worry. It chokes me sometimes, drying up my mouth, making me wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for water. Other times, it just sits at the base of my head, making me jittery and irrational.

The bell rang, and I put away my broom to greet the customer. It was this pretty brown-skin girl, who was probably my age and was wearing an oversized zipped up Hufflepuff jacket.  

“Hi! How may I help you?”

“Hi, uh, I don’t really know. Could you suggest something for me?” she shrugged.

That was surprising. Most people gave me a straight answer.

“Well, you could take,” I pointed to the menu board behind me. “The chicken wrap, those are good. Maybe one of the shakes, or, you know,” I shrugged.

“Mm, I guess I’ll just…go with the chocolate shake.” She decided.

I got to work.

She said her name was Julia. She walked over to the stall by the window and pulled out a book to write in. Within a few minutes, she was engrossed.

What? No, I wasn’t staring.

I quickly finished with the shake and shuffled over to her table.

“One chocolate shake for Ms Julia.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“What are you writing about?” I asked, pointing at her notebook.

“Oh! It’s just a diary slash notebook,” she turned to pages. I could see a few diagrams as well. “I just take notes on various interesting people and things,”

“Huh. That’s a pretty sweet hobby actually. Pretty interesting too,”

“Thanks,”

She smiled at me. I smiled back. And then I realized she was really pretty. Her hair was a black curly/wavy mess and she looked so warm and cosy in that jacket and I was just –

-“Are you okay?” she asked.

Shit.

“Oh! Sorry! I just get lost in my thoughts sometimes…yeah, sorry about that.” I looked at the ground sheepishly.

You absolute wack. You numbskull. You fool. Couldn’t you have not done that? I chided myself. Here I was, starting a good conversation with a pretty girl, and my dumb ass has to go and ruin it.

“It’s okay, I do that all the time.” She laughed (Ooh it’s a nice tinkle-ly laugh. I like that very much, yes, I would like some more please). She also gestured me to sit down.

Looking around the shop, I sat. It wasn’t like anyone ever entered this store.

It was in a secluded spot on Doha Road, next to an Al Madina Supermarket. I doubted that many people living in the three-story apartments knew this store existed. It was probably a landmark instead.

Not that great for business, but whatever, right? Whatever job that pays.

“What are your hobbies?” Julia asked, crossing her arms on the table.

Good question.

“I have no idea.” I smiled. Waiting for the response (I always) expected.

Instead, her eyes lit up, and she gasped. She grabbed her notebook, rushed to an empty page and looked up at me with wide eyes.

“Oh God, Is it okay if I take notes?” she asked excitedly. “I’ve been waiting to meet someone just like me for a really long time!”

Just like her?

“Yeah, sure, only if you tell me what you’re writing about,” I compromised.

She smiled at me. I smiled back. And I realized that I probably have a crush.

It hit me like a bucket of warm water. I felt a little giddy, but a more put out. Every time I had found someone ‘pretty’ or ‘interesting’ or ‘funny’ in a romantic way, and realized I had a crush, I would usually lose it within a few days or months. Also, the crush wouldn’t even feel like a crush. I wouldn’t have butterflies when talking to them, I wouldn’t feel a thing when they look at me and when I lose the feeling of a crush, I don’t feel much, except the countless voices in my head telling me about the pros and cons about it.

“Okay, so, do you know how to describe yourself in words?” Julia asked, pencil poised over the off-white pages of her ‘diary slash notebook’.

Okay, so I think I know where this is going.

As a child, I never learnt how to describe myself in words. I tried my very best, but at most times, I felt like I was just a neutral person. It was like those ‘Find out what type of Flower you are!’ quizzes, where you had to choose what you were specifically. I always felt like I would fit in multiple choices, none at all, or bits and pieces of different choices. That made me different. That made me the odd duckling.

People called others like me crazy, mad, inhumane and so many more. The really superstitious people went even further to say that we were the children of the Devil and said we needed to go to conversion camps and shit. I know, ridiculous right?

I wished I could freely advocate for the equality of people like me without fearing death. I mean, how am I going to make a change is I die within the first few attempts?

Our conversation went on for about two hours. Julia was a fairly interesting person, with a curious mind begging for answers. I delayed answers with small smiles and dramatic gestures until she exclaimed with that giggle I really like.

The thing is, I could feel her personality. I could see that bubbly energy, that sparkly, genuine smile light up whenever I gave an answer that resonated with her.

“Oh my god! That’s exactly how I feel!” she would gasp, and I would laugh. Those wide eyes and shocked expression looked simply adorable on her.

She had a distinct aura that gave me an idea of how she would be around. She seemed to have answers for slightly random things, but I could see why she would know them too. She seemed like the person to go to a café to observe people and try to get to know them by being that friendly, cuddly person she is.

I wondered if I gave off an aura too. What was it like?

Was it as deadpan as my occasional answers to inconvenience? Was it as flowering as my imagination as I read a book? What did it feel like? Was it comforting? Light-hearted? Mysterious? I don’t know.

Maybe Julia could tell me, maybe when we go for our second date on Thursday.

(No, she didn’t say that today or Thursday was a date, but I can think it was without telling her. That’s fine.)

Smiling to myself secretly, I dialled my mother’s number on my phone as I waved my boss a good night. I ran to the bus station, just as the bus came to a stop.

“Hey, it’s me, Mom.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I told you I ran out of money in the phone, na?” my mother chided. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“Ma, I told you that I can’t call during my job. My boss doesn’t like it!”