Ana sits on her bed and looks at herself in the wall mirror. Her hair is two shades darker wet from a shower. She pulls it back, then over her right shoulder, and squeezes. Water drips down her chest into her lap and onto the sheet between her legs. She tilts her head and engages her reflection like a photograph, the Ana other people see.
You’re not so impressive, you’re not so great. You look like a girl trying to be a woman - who are you trying to fool?
She opens her hands on her thighs, still damp and cooling now, and lowers her eyes, her head.
You are alone, you can cry.
Her eyes well with tears, which roll warm down her cheeks, down her lips and her chin and her neck. She wipes her face with her towel.
This is stupid, this is so stupid, why are you crying? (I don’t know, but it feels good.)
So she lets herself go: sobs shaking her shoulders, gasps punctuating her breaths, and tears falling on her legs and mixing with the water from her hair.
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