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(This is how a girl comes to hate herself: with ease.)
⊹
Kei keeps the mirror in her room covered when she isn’t getting ready in the morning.
It’s a habit that carried over from junior high. After so many years of spiteful comments and torn uniforms and physical injury, she doesn’t look at herself if she can help it. Her body is nothing but a map of scars, each one a reminder of her weakness, and it’s the remembering that hurts more than anything. When a headspace has been poisoned like hers has, memories can be sharper than the moments. They are amplified, superimposed onto each other, and impossible to push down when brought to the forefront of the mind. Even after entering high school, even after the bullying stopped, she still can’t look at herself, for fear of remembering. So she doesn’t. She can’t.
When Kiyotaka comes over to her room for the first time, he gives the covered mirror a perfunctory glance but does not mention it. Kei is grateful, in these instances, that he is still too disinterested in others to press it. He is getting better at asking questions, at being curious for curiosity’s sake rather than for whatever twisted notion of ‘self-improvement’ was drilled into him, but he still finds small talk pointless. That, and he seems to know this isn’t something she can speak about just yet. For all his relentlessness in pushing her growth, he’s still mindful of her boundaries, of what to cross and when.
So he doesn’t ask about the mirror, and Kei continues to pretend that she hasn’t trapped the ghosts of her past in it. Continues to pretend they aren’t leaking out.
For now, that will have to be enough.
⊹
When Kiyotaka asked her out, Kei didn’t know how, if at all, their routine would change. Up until then, they’d never had a conversation without purpose, without them performing their respective roles, him as the puppeteer and her as the puppet. It’s strange, to say the least, to have the permission to call him and just talk. It’s stranger still to have him respond with an earnest effort. Hearing Kiyotaka discuss the most trifling things is such a stark contrast to his usual calculated self. Communication without ulterior motive. How novel. How relieving, Kei thinks, to know that he is capable of it at all. How satisfying to know that he’s enjoying it.
But the thing is, neither of them knows what a normal relationship should look like.
He has his novels and films, those idealised but clumsy notions of romance; she has her bluffs, her wishes, her experiences with men who saw nothing more than her body. But neither know anything real, anything healthy or honest or equal. In that sense, Kei thinks she might be a little too broken for love. Still, that won’t stop her from trying to give Kiyotaka the peace he deserves. If he wants to experience love for what it is, she will do everything in her power to give him that, regardless of her own damage. She is nothing if not a good tool. This is just one more task he has given her, that she has given to herself.
And, so far, she is performing well. They can speak to each other in new ways, now, in ways that friends and lovers do. She rambles about classmates, her day, the new specials at the cafe, whatever other nonsense she can spin over the static of the school phones, and Kiyotaka listens. He listens and he responds—haltingly at first, but then with more ease, and Kei is proud. It’s something new for her in regards to this relationship, but it’s something new for him entirely. It’s a learning experience and it eventually tumbles into more, into a partnership, a give-and-take.
It’s just as well that, while she teaches him how to communicate, he teaches her the things she missed out on when she was too busy hiding from bullies in junior high. During these impromptu lectures, Kei finds she has a talent for both literature and history. It makes sense, then, that her favourite of their discussions are about myths and legends. She has always been fascinated by how humans tell stories, how good they are at pretending, and then at believing their own lies enough to worship them. (She wonders if that says anything about her.)
Today: Pygmalion. Kiyotaka recounts the tale as Kei starts making their dinner. After hearing so many of these Ancient Greco-Roman stories, she has learnt to hold her tongue until she has heard the full thing, lest Kiyotaka chastise her for shortsightedness. With this one, though, her opinion stays largely the same throughout.
“Well, that was crass,” she declares when Kiyotaka finishes, her knife work swift and precise even as she speaks. “It’s always the misogyny and hubris in these myths. I mean—the sculpture doesn’t even get a name. Can you believe the entitlement? Pygmalion is an asshole.”
“She gets a name,” counters Kiyotaka, but his tone is noncommittal. “Granted, it wasn’t from Ovid, but popular culture accepts it to be Galatea.”
“Oh, yes,” Kei retorts, caustic. “Popular culture gave her a name—in retrospect. As an afterthought. Because what is a woman if not a dispensable extension of a man? And, anyway, that doesn’t do anything for the fact that she was nothing more than a sex toy for him.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, what a revolting narrative. And people think it’s charming? Romantic, even?”
Kiyotaka doesn’t smile outwardly, but Kei can tell he’s amused. “Most people aren’t taught it how I’ve just told you,” he reminds her. “But I take it you don’t like this one.”
“Well, I suppose it’s an important reflection on the relationship between art and creator, and on how the Ancient Greeks and Romans saw virginity and beauty as the only markers of a woman’s worth. I just don’t think it’s a love story in any right.” Kei stops chopping and says, unthinkingly, “It’s a bit like us, don’t you think?”
“How so?” Kiyotaka returns blandly, without missing a beat, and Kei realises exactly what she has just said, the horror at the implication following quickly.
“Oh, god,” she starts. “That’s not—I don’t mean the assault at all—or that—” She gestures frantically with her knife as she tries to find the words, before exhaling. “Just—Okay. Pygmalion fell in love with what he built, right? More than that, though, we find out he could never have loved anything other than his own creation. Part of that comes from his inability to take other, real people for what they are.”
“And you think I couldn’t love something I didn’t make myself?” Kiyotaka asks. There’s no hurt in his tone, just a dull kind of scrutiny, which is typical of him, but Kei can feel herself clamming up like she always does when they broach this topic. She starts chopping again and doesn’t look at him.
“I think,” she says, slow and measured, “that you were raised to view love very differently from how the rest of the world does. I think love, for you, is a little more like trust, and the only person that has ever been safe to trust is yourself. So it’s easier for you to love someone when you know you’ve had a hand in their development because, in a way, it’s like loving yourself.” She pauses to order her thoughts, knife still moving rapidly. “So you—you like me because I’m a reflection of your power. I’m the perfect example of your capacity to control another person. That’s what you love. That’s why we’re like the Pygmalion myth.”
It’s silent after that and Kei feels unease rise up in her like the steam curling up from their rice cooker.
“I understand,” Kiyotaka says eventually, and Kei is immediately reassured. “You’re incredibly knowledgeable about human emotion, Kei. I won’t deny your assessment but I—I also don’t completely agree. I think you aren’t giving yourself enough credit.”
Kei purses her lips as she tries to parse out his real meaning, and when she does, the tips of her ears heat up.
“Thanks, Kiyotaka,” she says with a deceptively light laugh as she scrapes the onion and garlic into a heated pan. “I appreciate that you think so. But, anyway, all this isn’t to say you can’t change how you view or experience love. We just learnt about neuroplasticity, didn’t we?”
“So you’re saying you want me to love you like a normal person?”
She blanches. “That’s not what I meant at all,” she rushes to correct. “I’m not saying it for myself. I want you to know what love is meant to feel like when it’s healthy and real. You deserve it. You deserve to experience what was conditioned out of you as a child.”
Then, she looks up and immediately lets out an affronted sound when she sees Kiyotaka watching her with the barest hints of amusement, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know what it looks like on him.
“Oh, you’re such a shit, sometimes!” Kei exclaims, the relief in her voice softening the desired effect. “Don’t tease me about something like that. See if I serve you any food now.”
“My, what harsh revenge. How will I survive without Karuizawa-obaasan’s famous beef curry?” Kiyotaka laments flatly. Then, when Kei doesn’t reply, he drops the attitude: “You’re not serious, right? I’ve been looking forward to this one.”
“Behave yourself, then,” Kei tells him, simpering. “Or I’ll cut your portion out.”
Kiyotaka immediately falls silent and a laugh bubbles out of Kei as she shakes her head.
And this is—so normal. So typically domestic that Kei can pretend, for this moment, that they really are a regular couple. But the thought is gone as soon as it comes. She has never had any delusions about where she stands in Kiyotaka’s life. Until now, she has been a pawn for him, and she doesn’t expect that to change because they’re romantically involved. Still, it’s nice to imagine that he might want her regardless of her usefulness. That he might keep her around even after she’s fulfilled her purpose in his plans.
“Kei.”
“Hm?”
“What you mentioned before,” Kiyotaka starts, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Have you had that? This real and healthy love? Will you teach me about it yourself?”
Kei stops stirring. She knows Kiyotaka is very much aware of the fact that she can’t back up her playgirl reputation but he’s not asking about romance, here. He’s asking about love. The kind that comes from care and trust and warmth, from family and friends as well as romantic partners. The kind Kei never really had the chance to give or receive.
Of course, Kei knows that her boyfriend has always been freakishly perceptive, but she didn’t think he’d pick up on this so quickly. On how she’s broken in more ways than one. Had he asked her a few months ago, she’s sure she would have ignored him. Lately, though, it’s become increasingly difficult for her to lie to him, the truth always making its way out, if only in pieces.
Even so, it’s a very long stretch of silence before she finds the strength to speak again.
“That’s—No. I can’t,” she says quietly and takes a trembling breath. “I can’t teach you. I’m sorry.” And then, a whisper, more to herself than to Kiyotaka: “I don’t think I know how to love or be loved in a way that makes sense. I don’t know if I’ll ever figure it out.”
She waits for a moment but Kiyotaka says nothing, for ten seconds, for thirty, for a minute. Kei blinks back the tears forming in her eyes and resumes cutting the potatoes. She tries to focus completely on her now trembling hands: half, quarter, dice; half, quarter dice; half, quarter, dice.
Stupid girl, she thinks. Stupid, stupid girl. How could she be so forthright? How could she put him in such an awkward position when she knows how hard it is for him to—
“In that case, I guess we’ll have to figure it out together.”
For the second time that evening, Kei wavers in her movements, and then stills. “What?” she asks, voice strained as she looks up.
Kiyotaka shrugs. His eyes are bright, honest, and Kei loves it when he’s like this, when he can open himself up like he never does in class. She only hopes he’ll manage to do it more and more often. “Neuroplasticity, right?” Kiyotaka echoes. “If I can change how I love, so can you. We’ll learn together. Okay?”
Kei shuts her eyes. Never in her life has anyone looked at her as an equal like this. Never has anyone cared about her growth enough to involve themselves in it, to reach out a hand and take the steps with her. She could cry, she really could, but instead, she opens her eyes again to see Kiyotaka studying her, his gaze piercing, but not invasive, not malicious, and Kei feels seen without feeling exposed. She feels known and, as frightening as that is, she’s finding that doesn’t want to give it up.
How daunting it is to give someone your everything. How wonderful it is to find out they will try their best to treat it with tenderness.
“Okay,” Kei says, feigning nonchalance as she turns away from him again. She clears her throat. “Alright. I can get on board with that.”
“Good.” There’s something fond in Kiyotaka’s voice, if you know how to find it. “Let’s do our best, Kei.”
The thing is, they aren’t normal. With how they started out, they were never going to have a normal, healthy relationship. But they can try for stable, for mutually supportive, for something good for them, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. Just the chance of it working makes it worth a try. Just the notion of Kiyotaka wanting this with her makes Kei feel like she is perhaps something more than a pawn to him. With her heart aching, she thinks, I’m afraid I really might end up falling in love with you. I’m sorry you’ll have to deal with that.
Out loud, she says, “Now, if you’re done yapping, could you please slice the cherry tomatoes for the salad?”
Kiyotaka snorts lightly. “Sure,” he says, and stands to take his place beside her. Effortlessly falling into their routine.
⊹
Kei thinks about it later that night, what Kiyotaka said at dinner. You aren’t giving yourself enough credit.
She understands it to mean something like, you are worth loving for yourself, too. Not just for what I’ve made you.
And although Kiyotaka doesn’t lie to her about this kind of thing, Kei still doesn’t know how much she believes him—how much she can let herself believe him. But she’s glad that he’s getting better at voicing these more complicated emotions, even if, as of now, she’s the only one who would be able to decipher his true meanings. It’s growth, on both their parts. It’s something good.
⊹
(This is how a girl falls apart: deliberately. It doesn’t take much for a thread to come loose, but for a complete unravelling, you have to keep pulling. Over and over, she tugs at the end of herself, undoing every little thing that makes her who she is. Now, she is a single length of string pretending to be a girl. How will she knit herself back together?)
⊹
Once, during junior high, her father asked her if she wanted to be put in therapy. He had brought it up impassively, in the tone one would comment on the weather with, but somehow still cautious, still apprehensive. Even as his eyes were trained on his newspaper, Kei could see just how careful he was being.
But not careful like a father is with his precious daughter. Careful like you are with a time bomb. Careful like you are with a broken girl, a volatile girl, a girl who has been abused past the point of no return. Oh, how Kei resented her girlhood.
“They might help you learn about yourself,” her father had said. “Help you get stronger.”
It’s a little funny, Kei supposes, how people think she lacks self-awareness. It’s funny that they think she needs help to figure out anything about herself. It’s funny because Kei very much knows who she is. She is well acquainted with every inch of her body and mind; she’s conscious of every shortcoming in her personality, every flaw on her skin, every single thing that makes her who she is. She has always known herself, completely and entirely. She might be the only person who ever will.
“No, otousan,” she had replied in the end, her tone regulated and polite. “I’m perfectly fine. But thank you very much for the offer.”
Karuizawa Kei is well aware of everything she is and, more importantly, everything she is not. In that regard, she doesn’t need a medical professional to tell her anything.
⊹
In other regards, though, she thinks she may need some external help. She only admits this during the very early hours of the morning, when everyone else in the dorm is asleep, and the only sound is that of her own shallow breathing.
More and more, she finds herself wondering if the bullying had really been the problem at all. They were a problem, certainly—PTSD doesn’t manifest from nothing—but, now, strangely, she is more on edge without them. There hasn’t been an incident of threat or intimidation since Manabe was expelled, since Kiyotaka had squashed Ryuuen back in winter, but, still, Kei trembles when she passes a public bathroom. And it isn’t fear, not really. Not when she knows Kiyotaka will protect her and that she can, in fact, protect herself, too. But with no one to protect herself from, the vigilance that occupied her mind for nine years is no longer so overbearing. It’s quiet enough in her head, now, to hear herself think, and she doesn’t know how pleased she is about that.
Because, see, knowing yourself better than anyone also means knowing how to hurt yourself better than anyone. Kei could break her own spirit beyond repair, should she want to, because she has everything she needs to do it at her disposal. It isn’t surprising, then, that when she retreats to corners of her mind at night and listens to the voice in the back of her head, she finds a cruelty more serrated than what any of her bullies cut her with.
In a nauseating twist, she finds that her worst tormentor may have been the girl in the mirror all along.
⊹
(This is how a girl becomes a monster: she gathers every terrible thing about herself and puts them in the mirror in her bedroom. She covers the mirror up. The mirror breaks. Now, she has to face the worst of herself. Now, she learns just how sharp broken glass can be.)
⊹
It takes another person altogether to put things into some kind of perspective.
For the past few months, Kei has considered her issues to be firmly locked within the microcosm she has built with Kiyotaka, unknown to anyone other than them. To everyone else, she’s still the queen bee, the fashionista, the popular girl. But as much as she enjoys her friends’ company, she knows those relationships are superficial, if only because she has not and cannot show them her truest self. That’s why she would never expect them to care enough to notice her mask slipping, let alone ask about it.
But curiosity has always been humanity’s driving factor and Kei knows just how observant some of her classmates can be. How foolish it was of her to expect these teenagers to mind their own business.
It happens at the end of the school day and Kei is still sat at her desk after class was dismissed, finishing up a worksheet.
“Karuizawa-san,” an unmistakable voice calls. “Do you have a moment?”
Kei looks up and feels her stomach tighten. “Horikita-san,” she greets, voice bright enough to disguise any wariness. “What can I do for you?”
Horikita, surprisingly, seems to hesitate. It’s a little off-putting; in the time Kei has known her, Horikita has never been anything other than assured and assertive, often to the point of domineering. Perhaps in the past few months, she has softened her heart a little, but her resolve has never gone anywhere, not enough for her to falter like this. Again, Kei’s nerves flare.
“I just wanted to say,” Horikita starts, “that I hope you’re alright. I apologise if I’m overstepping, but I want you to know that I’m always available to listen if there’s anything on your mind. I’ll try to help however I can. You are a vital member of this class, Karuizawa-san. I want the best for and from you. So don’t hesitate to speak with me, if you feel the need. That’s all.”
Kei blinks in mute shock. Had she really lost her composure that much? To the point where Horikita felt the need to check her? Is this a warning? A jab at her lessening control? Or maybe it’s—
—Maybe it’s nothing so negative at all. Maybe, if she takes a moment to slow down and process, she’ll realise that it’s not an insult nor a threat. Maybe, for the first time in Kei’s life, someone wants to help her solely for the sake of helping her. Horikita said that it’s for the class, but Kei is good enough at reading people to recognise true concern for what it is. It caught her off guard only because it’s never been directed towards her like this. She doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
And Kiyotaka is listening to their conversation, she realises suddenly. He isn’t looking at them but she can tell that the way he’s tapping at his phone is a cover.
Fine, Kei thinks. He wants to see how she handles this? She’ll show him. She’ll show him exactly how far she’s come.
“Thank you,” she says to Horikita, quiet but determined. “Thank you, Horikita-san, I appreciate that a lot. There actually is something I’d like to discuss but—it’s mostly unrelated to class matters. Is that still alright?”
“Yes, of course,” Horikita assures her, surprise colouring her expression before she schools it back into something neutral. “Whatever you need to talk about. I’ll message you tonight and we can plan to meet when we’re both free.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll look forward to it.”
And Kei will look forward to it. It is undeniably terrifying, the idea of imparting her history to someone without the clear motive of protection. When she told Hirata, it was so he would help her. When she told Kiyotaka, it was because she wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. Telling Horikita will be something else altogether. It is, in all respects, poor strategy to disclose her weaknesses. It may end up ruining her. It will be terrifying. But Kei knows how to handle the taste of fear. If she wants to let go of her past, to escape the grip it has on her, this is something she needs to do. And she has always followed through with anything she sets her mind to.
Horikita nods and begins to walk off when Kei calls out to her again. “Horikita-san. I don’t think I’ve said yet, but I love your haircut. It suits you.”
It’s the truth. Perhaps the new style itself isn’t too consequential—Horikita is an exceptionally beautiful girl regardless of hair length—but it’s the way she carries herself now that Kei has noticed. With confidence but not arrogance, a newfound grace, now that she isn’t so drawn into herself, so insistent on believing everyone around her is a liability. She has changed immensely since they started high school and every doubt Kei may have had back in that first March has been dispelled. Now, she is glad Horikita Suzune is Class D’s representative. But she isn’t quite brave enough to say that in so many words. So she compliments the haircut and hopes Horikita can read between the lines.
And she must, with how her eyes brighten. “Thank you, Karuizawa-san,” she says, a genuine smile at her lips now. “That means a lot coming from you.”
“Of course,” Kei returns with a smile of her own. “Now, don’t let me keep you, I’m sure you’re very busy, Class Rep-san. We’ll speak soon.”
Horikita inclines her head with a light laugh, bids her a good day, and takes her leave. From across the room, Kei feels Kiyotaka finally look directly at her. She meets his gaze and doesn’t look away.
⊹
(This is how a girl becomes a saviour: she takes the broken shards of a mirror prison and fashions them into a weapon. Now, she knows she is prepared for whatever opponent comes her way.
What she doesn’t know is that salvation requires more than just bloodshed. After all, those mirror shards still show reflections.)
⊹
Popularity, like so much of school and society, is governed by its own set of rules. This is good for Kei because she is exceedingly capable of both following and breaking rules as required to protect herself. When the popular girls bullied her in junior high, she catalogued what it was that gave them power over her: what they wore, how they spoke and carried themselves, how they treated others—everything, down to the smallest details. Armed with that knowledge, she clawed her way up the hierarchy at the Advanced Nurturing High School so quickly that no one could even think of hurting her until she was already above them. She earned her classmates’ respect and attention only by virtue of knowing exactly how to act to gain it.
Care, though, is not quite the same as respect. True care is not earned in that sense; it is, instead, freely given. And care without incentive or agenda is not something Kei has been on the receiving end of. So when Horikita Suzune, Class D’s resident ice queen, expresses concern—concern born from care—what does that mean for Kei? What does that mean for the things she believes to be true about herself?
Because truth, Kei knows, is something that has a basis in reality, and for so long, her reality was dictated by those who sought only to hurt her. If you keep telling a girl that she will become nothing, you will, in all likelihood, be proven right. If you tell her she is pathetic and ugly and defective enough times, she will come to believe it and act accordingly. In this sense, truth is what is repeated.
But, Kei has discovered, this also means that truth is malleable.
As of now, her reality is no longer dictated by her bullies. It is dictated by people who hold her in high esteem, by her boyfriend who supports her and pushes her, by people who consider her a friend and a leader and a pillar. It is dictated by Kei herself. And if her reality has changed, then, surely, the truth which is derived from it has changed, too. If there is no one left to harm her so callously, she has no cause to harm herself either. There is no reinforcement for it: no one stuffing roadkill in her desk, no one hacking her hair away with scissors, no one in her ear telling her just how worthless she is. There is no reasonable justification for her continued self-hatred, not like there was in junior high, when she could sit in front of the mirror and tell herself she deserved every nasty thing that happened to her. Her past’s vicious cycle has been broken and, in a sharp moment of epiphany, Kei realises just how far she has come from the girl of her childhood.
The Karuizawa Kei of right now is popular. She is the leader of Class D’s girls and the school shadow master’s eyes and ears. She has successfully secured her position in the class, and is admired and respected in accordance with that. But the Karuizawa Kei of right now is also cared for.
How dare she be the only one to undermine that.
⊹
When Kei finishes showering that evening and returns to her room, she puts on a brassiere and briefs and stands in front of her covered mirror for a long time. Eventually, she lifts an unsteady hand to pull the cloth away, letting it drop to the floor and pool around her feet.
Then, she looks at herself.
And the girl in the mirror looks back.
In Ovid’s original story, Pygmalion’s statue was never given a name, nor a voice, nor a choice. But Karuizawa Kei is no statue. She is no myth. There will be no gods to give her the love or life she wants. She will have to do that for herself. And, with the mirror laid bare in front of her, with herself laid bare in front of her, she thinks she might be able to.
Kei lifts a hand and, ever so gently, she traces the scar under her left breast. For the first time, she lets herself remember, and she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t panic. Her heart doesn’t stutter and her lungs don’t constrict and, miraculously, the memory is nothing more than just that. A fragment of the past. When her fingers reach unmarred skin again, she feels lighter.
Her body is a map of scars. She knows this. But a map of scars, she is discovering, shows more than a history of weakness. It’s also a history of recovery. And for all the names Kei has been given—weak, defective, parasite—she has always, always been a survivor.
Regardless of what Kiyotaka gave her, how he nurtured her into who she is now, he didn’t create her from scratch like Pygmalion did his statue. Kei was already a person before and without him. She already had the assets to become what she is. She has come this far on her own merit, and she will go even further the same way.
The truth is this: Karuizawa Kei is many things, and not all of them are pretty, or good, or sweet. The truth is this: complicated. Like people, it is messy, bittersweet, difficult. The truth is a girl hating her body or a boy not knowing how to love. The truth is not something Kei could face, before now.
It’s unsurprising that her final test, so to speak, is herself. Even in its warped cruelty, her reflection has always been the most honest thing in her life. And now, slowly but surely, the hurt in it is melting away. Not forgotten—this is not something she can ever forget—but made peace with. Given closure.
After all this time, the girl in the mirror is learning to be kinder. She is learning to forgive.
And, for now, that is enough. It’s enough because Kei knows there is more to come hereafter. Recovery is not linear, not for her, but for it to go anywhere, it first needs to begin. This is what that is. A beginning, delicate and newly blooming, but with the potential to become everything.
It is enough.
⊹
The next morning, after she finishes styling her hair, Kei doesn’t put the cloth back on the mirror. Instead, she folds it up neatly and tucks it into the bottom of her closet, before heading to class.
When she arrives to homeroom, 2-D is causing their usual amount of ruckus, acting so typically, it feels as if nothing momentous has occurred at all. In some ways, Kei supposes, it hasn’t.
Because lives, she knows, change all the time. As in, millions of different lives change every day, but just one person’s life can change constantly, too. Kei’s growth is not just one moment in front of a mirror. It is every moment in front of a mirror. It is, in fact, every moment of her life going forward. It is something she must do all the time. She must choose to change her own life all the time.
So let her classmates act like nothing exceptional has happened. It hasn’t. Because Karuizawa Kei will not let growth be an exception. She will make it her rule, however long it takes.
⊹
(This is how a girl becomes herself: with courage.)