The Muse

I don't know what I'm feeling.

It's heavy. Twitchy. Twisting inside me like something trying to claw its way out.

You let people walk all over you.

Like that's all you're worth.

I dig my nails into my palm, hoping the sting would ground me. Yet, all I feel is the gravity of it all.

Anna told her.

Why would she do that? She's my friend. Right?

Or maybe I'm just desperate. Maybe I call people my friends because I'm too afraid of what it means to be alone. Maybe I convince myself that anyone who smiles at me, who listens, who doesn't look at me like I'm a burden—is someone I should hold on to.

Maybe I'm just pathetic. That's what I've always been.

I peek at Anya from the corner of my eye as she drives.

Perfectly manicured nails grip the wheel, bold red lips pursed in quiet thought. She's wearing a tube top and bootcut jeans that fit her like they were made for her body, highlighting every perfect line. She doesn't need friends. She doesn't need anyone. People orbit her, drawn in like moths to a flame, desperate to be close, to be seen by her.

And me?

I'm nothing like her.

Despite being twins, we couldn't be more different. Anya is fire—I am smoke. She burns through the world, leaving her mark, while I fade into the background, hoping no one notices me.

She chose this college because of me. I know that. She'll never admit it, but I can feel it in the way she hovers, the way she watches me. She believes I'm easily manipulated. That I'm too soft. That I'm splitting image of our mother. It should be a compliment, but it feels anything but that. Mama has her three husbands protecting her, but, despite them giving me all the love, I can never tell them what I truly feel. I feel like if I tell too much, I'll end up getting hurt.

That I'll always be the girl who swallows her words, who lets people talk, who doesn't fight back.

She's not wrong.

But I want to be better.

I just don't know how.

What am I supposed to do? How do you change something that's been stitched into your skin since the beginning? How do you stand up for yourself when your entire life, you've learned to shrink?

Nothing ever really happens to me. Not the kind of thing that should make me feel this small, this worthless. But I still do. I still flinch when people raise their voices. I still overthink the way I breathe when I'm around people who don't like me. I still replay conversations from years ago, wondering if I should've said something different, or been someone different.

Maybe it's a series of things. Always being polite. Always being kind. Always give in too easily because the idea of conflict turns my stomach. Because I don't want to be a burden. Because I don't want to be another thing for people to hate.

Maybe it's because I've spent my whole life apologizing—sometimes with words, sometimes just by existing a little quieter.

And maybe that's the worst part.

That no one ever told me to be this way.

But no one ever told me I didn't have to be, either.

I swallow. Anya is strangely quiet and it's not like her.

I should say something. I should tell her she's wrong about Anna, that she's wrong about me.

But is she?

I stare out the window as my throat tightens.

Maybe I really am the problem. Maybe I let people treat me like this because deep down, I believe I deserve it. Because if I didn't—wouldn't I have done something by now?

The worst part isn't what Massimo did. It isn't the humiliation or the whispers that follow me down the hallways.

The worst part is that I just stood there and took it.

The worst part is that I let it happen.

And I hate myself for it.

Because a part of me already knows the truth.

Anya isn't wrong.

I just don't want to admit it.

❁

The car pulls up in front of the college parking lot, and Anya kills the engine. Without a word, she grabs her bag, swings the door open, and steps out, her heels clicking against the pavement.

I move slower. My fingers tighten around the strap of my backpack as I step outside, feeling the intensity of my thoughts pressing against my chest.

Maybe I should stop talking to Anna.

Or maybe I should confront her. Tell her I don't like her talking behind my back. That I trusted her.

Yes. I'll do that.

I'll find her between classes, look her in the eye, and say it.

Anna, why would you tell Anya knowing she'll worry?

No. Too soft.

I don't appreciate you talking about me behind my back.

Still too weak. If you were really my friend, you wouldn't have done this. Better.

"If anything happens, tell me, okay?" Anya's voice jerks me up.

I glance at her. She's already scrolling through her phone, barely paying attention, but she knows me too well.

I sigh. "You don't—"

"Krystina." She finally looks at me with those same unreadable expressions. "If you can't do something about it, then let me."

But I do. I want to do something about it. Not because she's the only one who sees me for what I am, or she's the only one who doesn't let me make excuses for it. I want to do it because I want to show her she's wrong. I am not weak. I am a part of her.

She doesn't wait for a response. She throws her bag over her shoulder and strides toward the business building. Students part for her without her even trying.

And just like that, I am alone.

I take a deep breath and start walking to my own class. With some newfound sensations crawling down my spine. People are looking, some laughing and some even click pictures like I am some exhibition piece.

I try to keep my head up, with everything I've got.

I shouldn't be nervous. It's just another day.

But my skin prickles. Like I can feel something waiting for me just around the corner.

I shake it off.

Focus.

Anna. I need to find her. Confront her. Stand up for myself for once in my life.

I repeat the words in my head like a mantra.

I will say something. I will not let this slide.

Just as I reach my classroom door, it happens.

A hard shove from behind.

It happens so fast that I don't even have time to process it.

One moment, I'm standing. The next, I'm on my knees, the sharp sting of impact shooting up my legs.

Laughter erupts around me.

Something wet and sticky oozes down my scalp, clinging to my hair, and my clothes. The sour stench of old food fills my nostrils. My hands tremble as I reach up, fingers brushing against the thick, disgusting mess covering me.

Trash.

Someone dumped an entire bin of garbage on me.

The laughter grows louder.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath catching in my throat.

Not again.

Not again.

I can hear whispers, and see students pointing, their amused smirks cutting deeper than knives.

Shame coils around my throat like a noose.

I should move. I should get up. I should say something.

But I can't.

I'm frozen.

And all I can think is—

Anya was right.

*******