The Boy in the Mirror
Eli Carter didn’t like mirrors.
Not because he was afraid of what he’d see.
Because he knew exactly what he’d see.
A boy who was never quite enough.
He would stand in front of the bathroom mirror before school and find something to criticize.
His hair.
His clothes.
His voice.
The way he smiled.
The way he walked.
The way he spoke.
There was always something.
“Everyone else looks better,” he whispered one morning.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his best friend, Noah.
Noah: You coming to school?
Eli typed:
Eli: Yeah.
He looked at himself one more time.
Then looked away.
At school, Eli was funny.
At least, that’s what everyone thought.
He made jokes.
He helped his friends.
He laughed loudly.
Nobody realized that sometimes his jokes were simply a way to hide how uncomfortable he felt with himself.
When someone complimented him, he never believed them.
“You look good today.”
They’re just being nice.
“You’re really talented.”
They probably haven’t seen anyone better.
“You’re a great friend.”
They don’t really know me.
Eli had become very good at rejecting compliments before they could reach him.
He didn’t realize it yet, but he had spent so much time looking for reasons to dislike himself that he’d forgotten to look for reasons to appreciate himself.
