One day, I will look in the mirror and say, “She’s perfect.” I won’t start cutting fat with my eyes, wondering when it all came in the first place. I won’t have to bite back tears when I meet extended family, aunty and uncle and nana and nani scrutinizing the dress I wore because there’s a bulge showing on the side.

Some days I dream my closet grew. All the clothes shrank two sizes, and suddenly, there’s more room for everything. But, other days, I wish that I just wouldn’t care. I think that’s what I want the most — to not care.

To not care. It seems like a bliss too far away, locked in some place, I can’t find. I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes, a cliché is better than hearing the incessant ticking of an analog lock in my ear.

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