In our one-digit years, we’d gallop around the house. We’d fly down the stairs and swing around the end of the banister to hear it wheeze, and the mirrors would witness our pigtailed head cackling with joy. Occasionally, I would look at you and you’d look at me, eye to eye, and we’d beam at each other, crooked baby teeth and all. We knew and loved each other then, and we were only saddened by the sheet of glass separating your left hand from my right.
The dawn of two-digit years brought attentiveness. Suddenly, frog-hopping and sock-sliding weren’t our preferred methods of transportation. We noticed other people, first how not everyone was an easy friend, then their distinctivenesses, their features. High contrast mode highlighted our pores, grandma pointed out our tummy, hormones made it all worse. It was exposure, visibility, a sudden nakedness.
The years ticked upwards. You became a tool for popping pimples and a shadow to hide from. I would bow my head over the sink to cry, and you would cry with me, but when we looked up, we’d both be met with disgust. Some nights, we’d curl up in our bed, and feverishly beg the universe for an answer; why was that in the mirror every time we walked into the bathroom? No amount of concealer and sexy pouting made you better.
But life sped past, and eventually the grooves of our face were familiar. There came days where we couldn’t tear our eyes off ourselves and days where we wallowed in the muck of self-pity. I’m not sure if we ever fell back into not knowing and not caring. But there is a net positivity now, resignation coupled with respect.
Alina Sidorova is a student by day and a writer by night. She likes to hang up fairy lights and squish her fat cat.