maxlooksmax
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Ethan never liked mirrors.
It wasn’t always this way—when he was little, he’d press his face against the glass, making silly faces, watching his reflection grin back at him. But now, at sixteen, the mirror had become his worst enemy.
He remembered the first time he truly hated what he saw. It was in seventh grade, the day a girl in his class laughed and whispered something to her friend while glancing at him. He hadn't thought much of it until later, when he heard her say, "I mean, look at his nose. It’s so big—like a beak."
That was the moment it started. The overanalyzing. The hours in front of the mirror, tilting his head at different angles, pressing his fingers against his nose, wondering if breaking it would make it smaller.
But it didn’t stop there.
High school was a battlefield, and every hallway was a gauntlet of stares, whispers, and judgment. His skin was never clear enough, his jaw never sharp enough, his body never strong enough. He compared himself to every other guy—on Instagram, in movies, even his own friends. They all seemed effortlessly perfect while he felt like he was falling apart.
His parents never noticed. Or maybe they just thought it was “normal teenage stuff.” When he stopped eating dinner, they assumed he wasn’t hungry. When he started wearing hoodies in the summer, they thought it was a fashion choice. When he took over an hour to get ready for school, they figured he was just being vain.
But Ethan wasn’t vain. He was broken.
Every picture of himself looked wrong. Every reflection was distorted. He’d run his hands over his face, convinced his features were asymmetrical, that his skin was rough, that his body was misshapen. People told him he looked fine, but their words meant nothing. They were lying. He knew what he saw. He knew what he was.
One night, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, tears streaming down his face, hands shaking. The fluorescent light buzzed above him, casting harsh shadows that made everything worse. He gripped the sink, his breath ragged. Why can’t I be normal?
His reflection didn’t answer. It only stared back, a twisted version of himself that he could never escape.
And in that moment, Ethan realized something.
He wasn’t just afraid of the mirror.
He was afraid that no matter how much he tried to change, no matter how much weight he lost, how many angles he adjusted, how much he obsessed—he would never, ever feel good enough.
And that was the saddest truth of all.
It wasn’t always this way—when he was little, he’d press his face against the glass, making silly faces, watching his reflection grin back at him. But now, at sixteen, the mirror had become his worst enemy.
He remembered the first time he truly hated what he saw. It was in seventh grade, the day a girl in his class laughed and whispered something to her friend while glancing at him. He hadn't thought much of it until later, when he heard her say, "I mean, look at his nose. It’s so big—like a beak."
That was the moment it started. The overanalyzing. The hours in front of the mirror, tilting his head at different angles, pressing his fingers against his nose, wondering if breaking it would make it smaller.
But it didn’t stop there.
High school was a battlefield, and every hallway was a gauntlet of stares, whispers, and judgment. His skin was never clear enough, his jaw never sharp enough, his body never strong enough. He compared himself to every other guy—on Instagram, in movies, even his own friends. They all seemed effortlessly perfect while he felt like he was falling apart.
His parents never noticed. Or maybe they just thought it was “normal teenage stuff.” When he stopped eating dinner, they assumed he wasn’t hungry. When he started wearing hoodies in the summer, they thought it was a fashion choice. When he took over an hour to get ready for school, they figured he was just being vain.
But Ethan wasn’t vain. He was broken.
Every picture of himself looked wrong. Every reflection was distorted. He’d run his hands over his face, convinced his features were asymmetrical, that his skin was rough, that his body was misshapen. People told him he looked fine, but their words meant nothing. They were lying. He knew what he saw. He knew what he was.
One night, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, tears streaming down his face, hands shaking. The fluorescent light buzzed above him, casting harsh shadows that made everything worse. He gripped the sink, his breath ragged. Why can’t I be normal?
His reflection didn’t answer. It only stared back, a twisted version of himself that he could never escape.
And in that moment, Ethan realized something.
He wasn’t just afraid of the mirror.
He was afraid that no matter how much he tried to change, no matter how much weight he lost, how many angles he adjusted, how much he obsessed—he would never, ever feel good enough.
And that was the saddest truth of all.
