28 blinking rapidly to rid my eyes of lingering droplets. I glanced up and wiped the last of the droplets from my eyes, to see myself in the mirror; or at least what should have been me. I was startled when I realised that I didn’t quite recognise the face reflected in the glass. The face I saw before me was tired—pale, with startlingly dark mascara smudged around red-rimmed eyes. I was so cold, and my veins showed blue beneath my collarbones and in my forearms. My heart (less loud now, harsh beatings replaced by the rush of water in the sink) was probably frozen in my chest. Or maybe it was just haunted. My whole body was haunted by the ghosts of all the almost-loves that came before. I saw their evidence in my reflection. In kindergarten, Xavier Hendrix, with his flaming crown of brilliantly red hair, had complimented my smile: the way my new “grown-up” teeth had little ridges at the edges. And so, I parted my lips and grimaced in the bathroom mirror: there he was. My hair was not the same as it was in fourth grade, but hiding in the waves cascading around my throat, I could see Andrew Prescott. Between giggles and curious stares, he had told me he liked me and I had said it back. He asked me to wear my hair down instead of in my usual ponytail because my hair was so long and beautiful and he hoped he could see it. My hair was shorter now, more blue than black, but I ran my still-damp hand through the mess of waves and felt him there. My first boyfriend had claimed my first kiss in college. I didn’t want to see him anywhere, but surely his traces remained somewhere and they made me uneasy. My second boyfriend was little better—I felt him in my hands, which he had held and kissed with such smothering tenderness. He had been a gardener who had mistaken my aloe for an orchid and drowned me. My first and only girlfriend had cheated on me after a year. I saw her in the tattoos on my side and my shoulder. We had gotten them at the same time—not matching, but her memory was etched into my skin with the ink. My third boyfriend had gripped my knee as he drove, absentmindedly stroking lazy circles as he suggested Panera and I shot him down in favour of Qdoba. He laughed every time because he knew I would always want Mexican food. My knee hurt the most—it was the most recent wound and I had inflicted it myself. I had been scared and he had been sweet, but the more Henry was convinced that I was the one for him, the more I had become convinced that I was not and would never be the woman he hoped I was. It hurt me to hurt him; the simple fact that I left did not mean that I had wanted to go, but it had to be done. Felix was the latest in this line to say the words to me. The words that I imagine no one really meant except perhaps when they spoke to their dogs or to their magical 2am pizza rolls: “I love you.” The winter that had settled in me began to thaw as hot liquid pooled in my eyes, threatening to spill. Everything always went to shit after they said that. Those words were the harbingers of doom and all of my instincts were screaming at me to run before we had the chance to hurt each other. He was so good for me and he made me feel like maybe I was good for him too. Was our mutual goodness enough? After Felix how could
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