I Am Not Jessica Chen

Like a crush who comes up to you in the moonlight and smiles at you each time you insist on moving on—just enough to keep you lingering, to make you wonder how good things could be. If only, if only.

The act of choosing what to wear always used to be an exercise in self-criticism, a reminder of my own inadequacies.

My life has never been like that. The only discernible pattern, really, is inconsistency: the second I improve in certain areas, I regress in others. My skin becomes clearer, but my hair becomes thinner. My grades in English rise, but my grades in math fall. I start exercising more in the mornings, but stop doing my laundry over the weekends. One step forward and one step back, and repeat, until in the end, it looks like I’ve been standing in the same spot for years.

Always the second one, the afterthought, the girl not good enough for anybody. Why had I imagined things would be different? Why did I even still believe in anything?

It’s silly, and it’s shallow, but it feels good to be wanted. To be so openly adored.

I’ve always had this theory that if I want something badly enough, the universe will make sure to keep it just out of my reach—either out of boredom or cruelty, like an invisible hand dangling stars on a string.