By Mila Diaz
Every day since quarantine started, I look at her page.
I watch the same 15-second TikTok over 50 times. I study the way she moves and her small mannerisms. The way her mouth curves, the way she smiles. I notice every little detail of the video. From the pink backpack in the corner with the silver heart-shaped pin, down to the chipped black nail polish she sports carefree.
I can’t help but want to be her.
It goes from her TikTok to her Instagram to her Snapchat, and now I’m at her mom’s Facebook, seeing every birthday photo, school graduation, and family outing. As I look, I can almost convince myself I was there like I remember taking that photo. I can faintly remember the feeling of that carpet on my freshly scraped knees, and the surprise I felt when a puppy jumped out of the box. I look at it for so long, I start to think those “Happy 7th birthday, Kimberly!” comments are for me.
I’m even more enthralled.
I study every single video she posted, all 1,466 of them. I analyze the way she parts her flaming red hair and exactly when she tucks her strand behind her pierced ear. How she winks at the camera with confidence. How she wears 3 rings, stacked, on one finger. How her smile feels real in one video and slightly off in the next. I watch all her makeup tutorials and copy the way she applies her lipliner in one swift swipe. I even began to copy her voice until my throat went sore to make sure I sound like I have a gap in my teeth.
Now, when I talk, I almost sound like her.
Just almost.
I’ve already changed my username to be similar to hers; just one letter off. I take the same pictures in the same angles and I wear colors and pose in ways I used to hate, but now it feels just right. I ask everyone I know to start calling me by her name. They were confused at first, but now everyone says it suits me better. I focus on her for so long, I’m sure there are no more details to miss.
I quickly up the anti and try all the things she talks about. The joint, the acid, the pills, and the drinks she downs nightly. I see her post on Twitter, she’s worried that she’s becoming an alcoholic.
I read it, but I’m too far gone.
Sometimes when I’ve come to, I don’t remember how long I’ve been lying there, or if I’ve eaten, or what day it is. But it doesn’t matter to me.
The warm feeling in my stomach only makes me think how at one point, she had the same feeling as me.
Last night, I woke up with my phone in my hand, her page open, her face frozen, wide-eyed. Everything was so quiet. The room was pitch black except for the light emitting from her face. I stared at it for so long that when I finally looked away, I could still see her burned into my vision. It felt like I was looking in a mirror. I touch my face to ground myself but it all feels so wrong.
My nose is too wide. My lips feel unfamiliar. My chin feels too pointy.
I pull at my skin wondering if the real me is underneath it, begging to come out. I hesitate for a moment before digging my nails deep into my skin and scraping down slowly.
I feel that I am close now—closer than I’ve ever been.
Mila Diaz is a political science student at LaGuardia Community College. While her primary focus is on studying campaigns and debating political theory, she has always fostered a love of writing fiction that focuses on identity and the extreme perceptions of modern-day society. Though she often hops from hobby to hobby, writing is one of the few things she has never been fully able to let go of.
Art Credit
