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Fists hit the pillow, pulling back just in time for Louie’s face to hit it instead; choking back a sob, this was not something she could be vocal about. It wasn’t that it was incriminating, or it would make her family hate her again, it was just, not something they could help her with. Besides, it was cringe, barely even a problem worth the effort of being made known or being sad about. But still the thick tar of misery settled in her stomach, tingling with anxiety and the soft hum of inadequence.
She pulled back at her sleeves, staring at her arms; adorned with bracelets rather than thin scars. Somehow her wrists stayed safe during every adventure. But still her arms were clean; maybe it would be real if they weren’t, but they are, so why be upset about it? The thought to change it popped into her head from time to time, never seriously, she never wanted to, but maybe she wanted to want to.
Tiktok didn’t offer the information she needed, just sold her products she didn’t want or need. She wanted to know how not what. Louie would turn to pinterest, but she was never comfortable on the site. That was part of the problem she thought. If she couldn’t use the main site for aesthetic building, how could she enhance what she knew she wanted?
Even if she had the products, she felt like a poser. Her head wasn’t in it, even with the stuff. She wanted to be what she had; but for some reason she didn’t understand she couldn’t. Maybe she was the evil greedy boy they made her out to be when she was ten. Was she still confined to that fate?
The coolest person she knew, the most aesthetic person, who admittedly was some loser on the internet, said that she shouldn’t confine herself to an aesthetic. In the end the aesthetic didn’t matter, she was just tired of feeling like she was a poser in her own identity. Even with the cool pants and the varsity sweater that you would never even guess was from her favourite show, even with her poorly put together pinterest board and aesthetic waddle widgets, she was trying too hard. Or something like that. Something was wrong. She was wrong.
That had to be it right? Her brain just wasn’t made out for this sort of thing. Because if every person who had an aesthetic felt like this someone would’ve said something. Someone had to say something. There had to be an answer somewhere. She couldn’t be an imposter in her own life anymore, it would kill her.