"On the Other Side"

Diannelly Antigua


There she is, looking back at me. She knows that I am watching her. She does not look away, though.
I stare her dead in the face, and she returns my stare with her eyes, big dark eyes. She seems
familiar but different than I remember her. She knows who I am and nods her head in acknowledgement.
I continue to stare at her. At first, I see an innocent young girl, na•ve almost. Na•ve in the sense that
she has never experienced heartache in her life. She seems plain enough. Average, nothing unique
about her. Then I look deeper into her eyes, trying to read into her soul, to catch a glimpse of who
she really is. Underneath the dark mascara and eyeliner, I gaze upon something that I had not noticed
at first: pain. Makeup cannot hide the story that her eyes tell. It feels as if I am living those painful
moments with her. I imagine her lying down on her bed sobbing desperately, crying out for someone to
comfort her. Her body is trembling and her tousled hair covers her tear-swollen face. She murmurs
to herself, "Why?" between whimpers. She wipes the tears off her face and I see those same eyes,
lonely, heartsick eyes.

My mind comes back to reality, and my eyes shift now to her nose, which somewhat resembles a small
button. It is nothing like the pointy nose of a debutante, but rather like that of a small child's. I have
seen that nose before. In my mind, I see that very same nose gently flaring at the sound of a funny
joke, and I can hear her distinct cackle, a boisterous laugh always accompanied by a snort and sometimes
even a high-pitched feminine shriek. I laugh aloud at the thought of it and look to see that she is laughing
too. I see her mouth open wide as she lets out her well-known chuckle. Every tooth in her mouth is now
visible and in full view. Her smile is so vibrant, electric. I gaze at her lips. They are full and soft pink. Each
curve and crease seems almost perfect. They are different from the swollen lips I had remembered
earlier. Her lips take me back to a much simpler and innocent time. She is a little girl again and I see her
puckering her tiny lips and giving her grandfather a big, wet kiss on his dark, wrinkly cheek. He returns
the gesture with a sweet peck. My eyes are then drawn to her cheeks: tan, smooth, plump, and lightly
dusted with rose-colored blush. I know that she is young by her sun-kissed and blemish-free complexion,
but surrounding her lips are deep, engraved lines, wrinkles even. But those are not wrinkles from age;
instead they are laugh lines, lines that only constant beams of happiness can impress. A cloud of tight,
dark brown curls frame her heart-shaped face. They coil, twirl, spiral, and twist in every direction. Her
dark tresses seem to hide her face from the world and all those around her. It is her safe haven. The
place where she feels the most sheltered is under her blanket of curls. It seems as if she wants to be
hidden, as if she is embarrassed by herself. However, I see no reason for her to be ashamed of who she
is. For the first time, I have taken a glimpse into her soul; I have seen her inner self. For the first time,
I have seen how beautiful she really is; it is not just her face, but also her very essence. I had never
noticed her beauty before, because I had always overlooked it; I had denied her beauty. I had only seen
her simplicity but later discovered her intensity. Now, I know who she is.

She is my reflection. She is the part of me that I have forgotten, the part that I have neglected. She is
my beauty. She is the part that is hidden underneath the veil, the part sheltered from the world. She is
who I am, a different part, but still me. We are one, but she is just on the other side of the mirror. I never
have been able to reveal her, for fear that she will be rejected for not being average, for being different.
Through all my hardships, I have forgotten to love myself. I see only my mistakes, mistakes that I wish I
could erase from my life. I have hated my imperfections, my ugliness. There have been too many times
when I have looked in the mirror to only be reminded of my weaknesses, of all those times that I chose
the wrong path.

For so long, I had become a different person to escape the tragedy of my reality, never wanting to accept
my own life. I forced myself to become average and lost my identity. Bits and pieces of me began to crumble
in my grasp. I had destroyed my persona along with obliterating my memories, wounding but precious
memories. Those painful memories are my beauty. My imperfections are my beauty. They have made me the
person that I am. Every memory is a page of my life; and without each page, my life would be an incomplete
book. I am ashamed that I have hidden her for so long; I am ashamed of hiding myself. She and I have been
two different people for too long, and I do not want to disguise myself anymore. I want to be her again. The
girl I used to know. I rarely ever see her when I look in the mirror. I see only my mediocrity. But today I saw
her. Weeks, months, or even years may go by, but I await the day when we shall meet again; the day when I
will look at my reflection and see only me.


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