The Person You Hated Most

You look in the mirror; eyes fixated on every slight imperfection. You move your hair, flipping, twisting, turning it until it falls the way it’s supposed to. You soften your eyes, practice the smile, adjust the angle of your jaw. But it’s always a little off, too much tension in the eyes, too little emotion in the mouth. You keep going until the crazed perfection finally settles, until the smile looks exact.

You glance down at the picture in your hand and adjust your clothes to match it before looking back into the mirror. They never knew, cared, or appreciated what they had anyway. The thought alone makes your anger rise. You would never show such disdain for yourself or your life the way they did. You would never waste what they threw away.

The picture slips from your fingers and hits the floor. You step on it without hesitation, turning in slow circles as if performing a role you’ve rehearsed a thousand times. The photo crinkles under your heel, pulling you back into memories you’ve tried to bury.

You didn’t shine or stand out. But they did.

You didn’t have their effortless beauty or presence. But they did.

You watched them complain and whine as if everything they had wasn’t enough. You watched the way their hair moved when they walked, the way heads turned when they entered a room, the way kindness was handed to them like it was owed. But you also saw the way they hated all of it. The way they rejected the very things you would have died for.

You wished you were them or even had half of what they did.

You felt anger toward them for pointing out your imperfections, even if they never meant to. Even if they never noticed you at all.

You stomp the photo harder, grinding your heel into it. You want to scream, but you know you must refrain.

“Why do they always get everything?” you whisper through clenched teeth.

You kick the photo across the floor, letting the final burst of anger leave your body. Then you pull your wallet from your pocket and reveal two IDs. One looks like you. The other looks like someone else, someone whose resemblance is too close to be a coincidence.

You slide the new ID, the one that looks like you now, back into your wallet. The other ID remains in your hand, and you stare at it with disgust. You’re not new to this. You know exactly what comes next.

You grab the scissors from the counter. You start by scratching out the picture on the old ID, feeling a small, sharp relief. Then you chop it into so many tiny pieces that it becomes unrecognizable. You let the scraps fall to the floor and toss the scissors aside, feeling almost free.

On the table sits a blank sheet of paper and a pen, prepared earlier. You sit with a confident, practiced ease. You sign your new name, comparing it to the signature you’ve been imitating. When you slip and start writing the wrong name, your old name, you let out a frustrated sigh. But eventually, you perfect it. Your new name. Your new personality. Your new you.

You leave your comforting home and walk to the nearby store. On your way, strangers glance your way and let kind smiles escape their faces. Now that you’re in public, your practice becomes instinct. You walk with your head held high, wearing the confidence that used to belong to someone else. The kind of confidence that draws attention.

You’re not paying attention when you collide with a stranger. Your shoulders hit, making you both stagger.

“Do I know you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

The resemblance hits you like a slap.

Your rage spikes.

How dare they look like that?

How dare they look like you?

It’s all yours now. You earned it. You worked for it. You bled for it. What did they ever do except complain about it? It’s not fair to you.

You long to complain too, to mean it, but you can’t. You had to earn this life. You had to fight for it. How could you ever complain about something you stole? But you know them too well, the way they can’t stand every small detail about themself. The thought makes you sick, at least you appreciate it, unlike them and all their ungratefulness. They should thank you for what you’ve done.

One look at their shocked face is enough to unravel you. Shame and grief twist inside your chest. You will never be them, not truly. And they know it. They know you’re the imposter. They know you’re wearing a life that doesn’t belong to you. They know it belongs to them. You know they don’t feel relief or impressed by what you’ve done.

Their expression shifts from shock to something like hurt.

As if your question, your denial, was a slap to their face.

They speak softly, almost like they’re afraid of breaking you. The gentleness of their voice only brings rage in you, as it's mistaken for pity. Maybe they were right to pity you, but you can’t accept that.

“Do you not remember who you were?”

Your stomach drops.

The world tilts.

The air feels too thin.

The audacity of their question burns through you.

They caused all of this.

They made you jealous.

They made you yearn.

They made you hate yourself.

And now you’re trapped yearning for their life, your old life, forever.

They look exactly like you used to look.

The version of you that you destroyed.

The version you practiced becoming again.

The resemblance is too much.

But yet you can never seem to perfect it, that part hurts more than the anger cutting its way through you. You don’t know that you're ready to hear it, but you will anyway because you couldn’t stop this now.

They inhale shakily, preparing to speak again. You almost flinch, not knowing what truth will come next.

Their voice is barely above a whisper.

“You stole everything… just to become the person you hated the most.”