I woke up Wednesday morning and decided to be a different person.
It sounds dramatic, but I'm good at it. I've done it before, remember? Back when I was sixteen and I thought the right haircut and a higher-pitched laugh would make a boy stay.
This time, I wasn't changing for a boy, I was changing to justify for the "Russia" in my belly.
James deserved a girl who didn't poke him with needles. He deserved a girl who wasn't a "sensitive bitch."
I spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror practicing a smile that didn't look like a grimace. Then, I sent the first text of the day.
Me: Good morning, Jamie. Hope you slept well. <3
I stared at the heart emoji. It looked like a drop of blood on the screen. Artificial and jarring.
James: Jamie?? Good morning! I slept great now that I know you're not mad at me. I love you so much.
The "I love you" felt like a heavy blanket being thrown over my head. I didn't say it back. Not yet. I had to build up to the big lies.
For the next three days, I was a saint. I asked him about his synth music. I listened, actually listened, as he explained the difference between an oscillator and a filter. I didn't roll my eyes. I didn't make a sarcastic comment about dial-up noises. I just sat there on the other end of the phone, humming in agreement, feeling my soul slowly leave my body through my ears.
"You're being so sweet lately," he said on Thursday night. His voice was thick with relief. "I feel like I'm finally seeing the real you again."
That was the funniest part. The "real" me was the one who wanted to scream into a pillow. The "real" me was the one who still had Maya's Instagram bookmarked. But to James, the real me was this quiet, agreeable girl who didn't have any edges.
I started doing things "sweet" girls do. I sent him a picture of a sunset. I told him he looked cute in his new hoodie. I tried to force myself to feel that "whole, alive" feeling I read about in books. I tried to imagine my veins burning.
But my veins were just cold.
The harder I tried to love him, the more I felt like I was erasing myself. Every time I held back a sarcastic remark, it felt like a tiny piece of my brain was dying. I was becoming the cardboard box again, but this time, I'd painted a smiley face on the side in bright, neon colors.
"I bought you something," I told him on Friday. "A little surprise. It's in the mail."
It was a vinyl record he'd mentioned once. It cost forty dollars that I didn't really have, but I figured if I spent money on him, it would prove I cared. If I acted like I loved him, maybe the feeling would follow. Fake it 'til you make it, right?
But that night, as I lay in bed, the guilt was still there. It had just changed shape. Now, it wasn't the guilt of being mean, it was the guilt of the Great Pretend.
I was being so "perfect" that James was glowing. He was more cocky than ever, more confident, more convinced that we were the "it" couple. And the more he glowed, the more I felt like a shadow.
I realized then that being "good" was just another way of being alone. Because James wasn't talking to me. He was talking to the costume I was wearing.
And somewhere, in a different city, Maya was probably being messy and real and loud. And James was still liking her photos.
I turned off my phone and pulled the covers over my head. I had been "good" for seventy-two hours, and I had never felt more like a stranger in my own life.