I know you’re watching.

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I know you’re watching. You’ve been watching me ever since I was a teenager.

You’ve been watching me through the half-opened cabinet in my bathroom; you pay attention to the little drips slowly gliding down my skin— you are so close you can smell the faint scent of my almond shampoo in the steam that fills the room. 

You see me dance in my room alone when I come home drunk from a night out as I sloppily take off my clothes and get in bed naked because I cannot find the energy to put on my pyjamas. And when I cried after each heartbreak, you were there every single time. You couldn’t console me. Still, you had always thought I looked pretty when my skin was slightly flushed, my lips swelled up, and my eyes were bloodshot. You hide under my desk every morning, making sure to be there when I wake up, my hair undone, laying in bed, spending too much time scrolling on my phone before starting the day. You wish I had a morning stretch routine instead or actually took the time to cook a high protein breakfast. You follow me in the streets, hiding behind the trees, as I walk with my headphones in. You love it when it’s nice out because I tend to wear short skirts. You like how my legs look under the sun after you’ve seen me apply coconut oil all over them before stepping out. You appreciate how I hold my cigarette when I sit on the terrace of some bar in the 11th arrondissement, especially when my nails have just been painted crimson. 

You sit next to my bed every evening. You wish you could run your fingers through my hair that you’ve seen me brush earlier.

You are always there, you have studied everything about me, every quirk, every facial expression, how I carry myself, and how I view the world. I always try to impress you while doing the most mundane things. I try to do everything with the right amount of class and femininity while giving the impression of effortless charm. Your presence reminds me to sit up straight when I am working alone in my room, hold my stomach when I am getting ready, and slightly arch my back to keep a beautiful silhouette at all times. I panic a little when I forget to put some perfume on before going to the store. It is just a few minutes of my day, but I want to smell good for you.

You keep me in check. As much as I like to think that you’ll always love me, I fear I can never let my guard down because what if I disappoint you? What if I do something to disgust you, for you to see me less than a respectable woman? The thought of you catching me at a bad angle makes me anxious, and I can’t let that happen. All I know is that if I keep you happy, then everybody else will be happy with who I am. When I am well-perceived, that brings me comfort and sometimes great joy, and I thank you. That occasional praise and validation from others is oh-so rewarding, almost intoxicating. I know it makes me sound vain, but I can’t help it. I may be addicted to the warm fuzzy feeling that takes over me when complimented. It makes me feel like I have won, that all the work and anxiety behind my tedious beauty and fitness routines are worth it. I think I’m doing a fine job, don’t you think? Please tell me I’m doing a good job. I am, right? 

You are always there. Always. 

Sometimes, I wonder what it feels like to be truly alone. I don’t remember the last time I was and how that felt. I wonder if I’d be the same person if I weren’t so scrutinised by you all the time, if my mannerisms would be the same, would I put my makeup on the same way I do now, would I be wearing makeup at all? I don’t know if I am myself or just a character in this movie you are watching. I don’t really know who I am without you. It is worrying me, but please don’t get mad at me. I just feel like I can only see myself through your eyes, and I feel like I am only content with myself when I feel like you are. I don’t think I know what it’s like to relax; certain parts of my body have been sore for years because I have been holding myself a certain way. I have been in really complicated financial situations where I still prioritised the way I looked because you’ve taught me that without beauty, I am worth less and that I can not expect a full life without it. I sit through the pain of bikini waxes every month, even during the cold winter, even tho no one is there to see me naked just because, well… I don’t really know. But how ungrateful of me, I shouldn’t be complaining so much, no one likes someone who complains too much. Forgive me. 

However I feel like I should be honest for once. You know what? Yeah..! I should be! Because no one likes a dishonest woman right? 

So I must say there are moments I forget about your presence. I hope you won’t take it the wrong way, but it feels nice. It gives me a break, and my body can rest, but it doesn’t last very long, the shame that takes over hits really hard. You’ve made beauty the centre of my world and led me to believe that nothing else really matters. It is a painful philosophy to live by, it’s shallow and it makes me feel empty. But maybe you’re looking out for me knowing how our world works despite its attempts to cover its shallow nature with facades. But I feel like I do not want to be the kind to follow these rules. I want to break free more than anything, I want to be released from all this silly constraints. Yet, every time I pull away you manage to suck me back in with cruel words and manipulate me by making me believe that I’ll die alone. That if I let go, I’ll always be the one that is never seen, the one that people forget to say hi to. I can forget about having anyone ever want to be with me too! You make me believe that if I do not upkeep my looks, whatever career path I choose to follow will never reach its full potential. You are driven by the compliments made by my peers, yet, you make sure I never believe them for very long so that I strive to be better, to reach higher and of course to be skinnier. I know you wish that I could just starve. You wonder why is it so goddamn hard for me not to eat something sometimes? Why can’t I just suck it up and not find myself hunched over in the kitchen at 3 am, emptying the pantry? You think I am too weak, don’t you? You make sure I know it when you suck the joy of feeding my body by filling it with dread and regret as soon as I’m done. You can be so cruel. 

Sometimes I’d like to take my two thumbs and gouge your eyes out ever so gently, press slowly, until I feel your blood drip on my hands down to my forearms, like the sticky juice of a very ripe peach after the first bite on a warm summer day. And you wouldn’t make a sound as you experience the pain you have caused me, a taste of your own medicine. And you would never ever be able to see or perceive me again. I like to imagine you sat in the corner of my room defeated where I’d keep you alive just so you can experience the deep frustration of not being able to control me. But you aren’t real. What a shame. 

I fantasise of a life where you do not need to be around for me to feel validated, a life where I let others see me the way I truly am, unaware and oblivious of what people might think. Where I value my wit, intelligence and kindness above all. Where I am only concerned about my body’s health and its strengths, where looks are not something even remotely important. I can almost taste the freedom, I sit here and think about how it would feel, for a moment I can almost taste it.

Paris, June 2024