Amidst the soft glow of fairy lights, the distant echoes of laughter wafted from downstairs, painting a vivid overture to the prom night. The gown, a silent sentinel of elegance, hung with quiet expectancy, its ethereal fabric whispering promises of glamor. As my friends twirled in their dresses, laughter intermingling with notes of anticipation, an invisible force drew me away, a gravitational pull to the bathroom—my space of silent contemplation.

I stood before the mirror, the gown masking the storm within. Fingers traced uneasy paths along the edges of my skin, pinching and probing in a silent dance of self-scrutiny, each touch a desperate plea for acceptance, etching the struggle into the lines of my face. Water welled in my eyes, cascading down, leaving streaks in my meticulously applied makeup. Desperation seized my waist, and my fingers clutched at the fabric of the gown, as if searching for an anchor amid the troubled hurricane.

I took a deep breath and gingerly placed one foot, then the other, onto the cool surface of the scale. The digital numbers blinked to life, casting a harsh glow against the bathroom floor. I closed my eyes, briefly, a futile attempt to shield myself from the impending verdict. The display settled, and my heart sank as I read the number—one pound more than before.

“You’re not hungry; you’re just bored,” my mother’s words echoed in my mind as I stepped off the scale. What you eat in private is what you wear in public. She teaches me what she has been taught, and she teaches well.

The pill bottle, nestled in the quiet corner—as the medication dissolved on my tongue, it was not just a chemical reaction but a shedding of the weight that had clung to my shoulders. The pound lost was a release of baggage carried for far too long.

I see my stomach acid more than I see my friends.

As the grand doors of the venue swung open, I stepped into a warm glow of glittering lights. Laughter and the rhythmic beats of music created an electric atmosphere, but amidst the swirl of excitement, a heavy unease settled over me.

My friends gathered around, their joy contagious. They wanted to capture the essence of this moment, freeze our happiness in photographs. Click click, click, the camera a pang of vulnerability. The flashes painted my face with an unrelenting honesty, highlighting every flaw and shadow of doubt etched into my expression.

I mustered a smile for the photos. The camaraderie of my friends, their confidence radiant, only intensified my sense of isolation. In the frame, they glowed with an assurance that seemed to elude me, their laughter echoing as a distant melody to which I struggled to find harmony.

The pill’s effects lingered, a bitter aftertaste that served as a cruel reminder of the choices made in pursuit of an elusive ideal.
– – –
I examined myself, my hands instinctively moved with a quiet desperation, fixing every detail with an almost ritualistic precision. The fabric felt like silk beneath my fingertips, each bead a tiny being that demanded my attention. The dress cascading in graceful folds, there was more than just a fleeting glimpse of admiration.

My biggest fear is mediocrity, having someone do something better than me.
There is no room for flaws.
No blemishes on clear skin.
Everything 100% perfect all the time.

With the soft creak of the door, I entered my sister’s room, now void of the vibrant energy that once animated it. The walls echoed with whispers of her absence, and the space felt like a museum of memories frozen in time. My eyes lingered on the empty bed, neatly made as if untouched by the passage of days. The row of photo frames on the dresser caught my attention.

I have always lived in her shadow.
I make up the darkest parts of her.
A doll built up from all her broken pieces.

Each breath felt like a struggle, a tightening vice around my chest. The corset tightly laced to uphold the illusion pierced into my skin with each breath. One, two, three, a relentless count that tallied not only the beats of the music but also the relentless reminders. I discreetly reached into the sockets of my dress, fingers fumbling for the small inhaler nestled within. In a quiet corner away from prying eyes, I took a measured puff.

My fingers traced over the dusty box hidden beneath a pile of scarves, fixated on the glimmer of a sparkly pin. Instead, in my hands lay a weathered diary, adorned with the inscription “Prom 2015.” Intrigued, I hesitated for a moment before opening the pages, unwittingly stepping into the intimate world of my sister’s thoughts a world where the sparkly pin I sought seemed to have slipped away into the recesses of time:

Prom night, November 15th

It’s always “You’re so skinny,”
“I wish I had your figure,”
While I smile and shake my head as Kate asks me for tips.
I promise you, you don’t want to be like me.

I do my daily check for collarbones,
My fingers wrapping around my wrist.
I watch yet another meal spiral down the toilet.

December 20

I walked downstairs to my Kate eating cereal next to the TV.
I offered “mine, I’m not hungry,” and with that, she left.

Stepping onto the cold tiles of the bathroom
The air was thick with an acrid, unsettling odor.
It was a scent that had played out in the hidden corners of my daily routine:
I knew this odor, and yet it wasn’t mine.

I moved through the familiar memories, the lessons I had relayed down.
I taught her too well the lessons I myself had learned, and for that I am ashamed.

Silent steps retraced my path, ascending the stairs with a weighty awareness.
Kate’s untouched cereal bowl by the TV was a reminder, less for me, indeed.

The scent in the bathroom, our shared narrative, our shared education.