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Camilo Madrigal cannot recount a time he’s ever felt like himself. Maybe he once did way back, back, before he got his gift - but he was young, then. Still growing, still changing, still learning. Ever since he got his gift, he’s done nothing but change. Change, grow, be anyone else. Someone better, someone stronger, someone needed.
Because the others needed someone else; someone taller, someone stronger, someone to help decorate and move the tables and someone to help watch a baby and someone to entertain. He liked his gift, of course! He was happy when using it to scare others, or to just use Delores’ image to sneak more food.
“Luisa will never be strong enough! Isabela will never be perfect enough!”
And, after everything, he thinks about his cousin’s words while watching his room shrink. Maybe even he himself would never be enough. The bed disappears and he falls against the floor, thinking - he’ll never be strong enough, tall enough, he’ll never be himself. The wall hits his side and he curls up, shaking hands tugging at his hair. Who even is he? He’s done nothing but change and mimic others. Copying his father in silly voices, mirroring his moves at the dinner table, he’s always been the perfect chameleon. But he’s never been Camilo. He recognized every face but his own.
He likes their faces, their voices, their different traits. The way Delores always ties her hair up with the neat bow, the way her skirt falls to her ankles, the many layers of Isabela’s dress, how free and happy Mirabel looks when she twirls and swings her skirt around. How happy Isabela looked when she finally stopped being perfect and grew what she wanted; cacti and sharp-pointed flowers, vines and roses full of thorns, plants that exploded into colors staining her dress. She looked so happy. She looked so… free.
Camilo finally looks up from where he’s curled up, realizing now that his room had shrunk to the size of a closet. Small, empty, and there’s him perfectly hidden in the corner. His room was always a mystery when he was younger since it changed often just like himself. The bed, the dresser, every little decoration - it would change with the days, with the emotions, with himself. But the closet is too small and he can already barely breathe, still stuck wondering if he’ll never recognize himself. Never know who he is.
He shuts his eyes, tight, pressing his palms to his eyes and trying to copy anyone he can, just to calm down. Clear skies, knock on wood, clear skies, knock, knock, clear skies. The room shifts, creaks, and the door opens. The room fills with light that he flinches away from, too scared to find out what they’d see if he looked. Whoever was at the door, would they find who they’re looking for?
“Cami?” But it’s Delores who speaks, “I… I heard your room get small. But you weren’t moving, and…” She sits by his side, speaking softly. “Are you okay?”
How does he respond? How does he respond when he’s not sure who it is she’s looking for, who it is she’s talking to, doesn’t know what he’s feeling or how to feel it? He picks at the ends of his ruana, staring at her skirt. What character is he supposed to play?
“...how do you do it?” He asks, reaching out to feel the fabric of her skirt. Soft. “How do you be so… free?”
“Oh, I’m not!” She says it with a laugh, which surprises him enough to finally look up at her with wide eyes. She stares back though, so he quickly looks away and back down at her skirt, tracing the lines with his eyes. “Well, not as much as I could be, yknow? I hear so much. Secrets, plans, problems. I heard Bruno every night. No one knew.”
Even she had her own problems to carry, always holding so many things at once. He knew it’d get overwhelming for her, too - her room was one of his favorites, after all. A sound-proofed room full of cushions and different things making soft noises. A windchime, a small waterfall, an hourglass. So many different options.
“But, you’re… you.” Camilo finally says, looking up at the wall across from himself. “You’re yourself. And you know who you are.”
Delores goes silent, seeming to think over his words for a minute. She softly hums, tilting her head a bit, “You don’t know who you are?” There it is. That question finally.
“No.” He shakes his head, then goes silent, thinking. How does he move on from here? “Everything feels… wrong? I know I’m me and I know I’m a boy, but… sometimes, it feels weird. Other clothing is so freeing, but I know it’d be wrong, but sometimes it’s so hard to change and then to change back, and-” He rambles, reaching up to pull at his hair again, but her hands quickly grab his.
“Okay, okay,” She holds his hands still, gentle, “So… think about it. Let yourself breathe and think about it. It’s not wrong. What do you want to be?”
“Well… I don’t know. Sometimes, I like being Camilo your brother. But sometimes, it’d be nice to be your sister, or just your sibling. Or to just be. Is… is that still okay?” He asks, nervous, staring at their connected hands. She nods though, and finally pulls him to stand up.
“Then, what are you today? Right now? What do I call you?” She asks with a smile, and he matches it with his own.
“I think… just Camilo. Your sibling.” He- no, they. They say it with a nervous smile, happy when Delores nods and repeats the words back. Camilo. Her sibling. They follow her out of the room that finally shifts to grow into something new, but it disappears quickly behind the closed door. They follow her to dinner, sitting by her side, and doesn’t miss how she refers to them as not he or she but they.