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"I’m such a cutie, right?" — it flashed through my mind as soon as I tilted my head and pressed my palm to my soft cheek. "And my cheeks, they're so soft... like a doll’s. Nothing like before." I ran my fingers along my cheekbones, feeling the smoothness of my skin, and my lips stretched into a smile on their own. Cute. Too cute. But Frank still doesn't look at me the way I want him to.
The reflection in the mirror blinked, and for a split second, I saw him — Mike. Short hair, angular chin, a look of confusion in his eyes. I jerked away from the counter, grabbing the edge of the sink. My heart was pounding like it was trying to break free from my chest and run back to the reality where I wasn’t... this.
— No-no-no, — I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. My voice was melodic, with an accent Mike used to mock in Asian girls. — You're Aiko. Aiko Takahashi. You're... an event organizer. You love pudding and… — I bit my lip, trying to remember what I’d written in my new Instagram profile. — And school uniforms. Because they're kawaii.
But inside, beneath this fragile shell, he was still there. Mike Smith. I remember being him just a week ago, remember his ambitions. He wanted to be a Senior Engineer by thirty. Dreamed of his own startup. And now, his fingers, shrunk by two sizes, nervously drummed on the porcelain sink. My fingers. No, his.
— Shit, I’m confused again. — I breathed in sharply, as if the air could mute Mike’s voice whispering from the depths of my consciousness: "You’re losing it. This isn’t normal." But Mike was wrong. What’s not normal is hiding behind a screen for years, wishing someone would look at you not as some transparent spot. And now... now I see. I see him.
My fingers trembled, touching the cloak. Like Yuno's. "You wanted to be loved, Mike?" — I mentally addressed my former self, clutching the fabric. — "Here’s your chance. Even if it smells like madness."
It all started with the rain. And with the Diary of the Future.
That evening, Mike Smith spent his time hugging a beer and staring at his laptop screen. The rain tapped against the window, and he, a 28-year-old engineer with a constantly stiff neck, got hooked on a scene where Yuno Gasai was hugging Yukiteru — her eyes, full of obsession, seemed... beautiful to him. "Now that's love," he muttered, feeling envy rise in his chest. Deeper than rationality, deeper than fear. He wanted to love like that. And to be loved like that.
And then — a flash. Pain, as if his bones were being ground in a meat grinder. The mirror in the bathroom, which he smashed with his fist, screaming in terror when his skin became smooth, his hair silky, and laughter caught in his throat, high-pitched and ringing. "Aiko. My name is Aiko."
— Frank... — the name slipped from my lips, sweet as a lollipop. I cracked my eyes open, looking at the reflection: a girl in a uniform, lips lined with pink lipstick, trembling like a leaf. But inside — a storm. "This isn’t normal. You’re losing it. He’ll never love a psycho in a schoolgirl skirt."
— Shut up, — I sharply jabbed my finger at the reflection, making my chest twitch slightly. — Frank-san... he’s just shy. I need to try harder. And I’m not crazy! I’m cute!
I threw the lipstick at the mirror. The glass trembled, and the scarlet trace spread across it, like blood from a cut finger. Drip-drip. Drip by drip, the lipstick flowed into the sink, and I froze, watching the crack spread from the center to the edges, slicing my reflection into two halves. One — Aiko, with her puffed-up lips and wet lashes. The other — Mike, his eyes narrow and harsh, as if saying: "Look at what you’ve become."
— Hee-hee… — a laugh slipped out, thin as the sound of a broken vase. — Just like Yuno-chan, huh? You think you can stop me? — I pressed my palm to the cold glass, feeling the tremor in my fingers merge with my heartbeat.
— I won’t let you. Not you, not… — My voice faltered as Emily’s face flashed in my mind. Emily from accounting. She had laughed today while standing next to him in the café, lightly touching his hand, as if by accident. But I knew better. Nothing’s ever an accident. Especially when it comes to his smiles.
I clenched the sink so hard my knuckles turned white, and laughter bubbled up in my throat — high, nervous, like a cat about to pounce. Emily. Emily with her curly red hair and laughter that cut through the air like a knife. She touched him. His hand. His skin. My Frank.
— Bitch, — I hissed, and my fingers dug into the edge of the sink, leaving red streaks from my fresh manicure on the white porcelain. My mind exploded with images: scissors digging into red curls, gasoline spilled around Emily's house, her screams as I stand in the shadows, holding Frank's hand... But no. No-no-no. That’s too rough. Frank... wouldn’t appreciate it.
I froze, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall — its rhythm matching the pulse in my temples. You’re smarter than this, Aiko. You’ve got a plan. You’ve thought it all through. A laugh escaped my lips. I know everything about her already. Emily lived in a cute house with a purple door. She had a cat, cacti on her windowsill, and the habit of leaving the bathroom window slightly open. And... she took antidepressants.