Turn 13 of 19

Conversation with my boyfriend turned strange. I found myself guiding the talk, voice smooth and knowing. He stared. “Sophie… talk to me. Real talk.” I tried to answer as myself and heard Vivienne’s tone instead. I locked myself in the bedroom, staring at the cougar in the mirror while the last of m

The conversation starts over dinner I didn't cook. Marcus made pasta — the one with the red sauce he always burns — and I sit across from him and pick up my fork and realize I'm not eating. I'm performing. My back is straight, my chin tilted at an angle that catches the light, and when I speak the words come out arranged, measured, each sentence a small polished thing placed between us like a chess move. He tells me his coworker got promoted and I say, "That must be hard for you," in a voice so silkily sympathetic that it sounds like pity. His fork stops. He stares at me, and I watch him not recognize the woman across the table.

"Sophie… talk to me. Real talk." He puts his fork down. His hands are flat on the table, palms up, the way you'd approach something wounded. His eyes are searching my face — the new cheekbones, the fuller mouth, the polished skin — looking for the girl underneath, some trace of her, some door he can knock on. I open my mouth to give her to him. I try to say something small and true and Sophie-shaped, something about being scared, something about needing help. What comes out is: "Darling, you worry too much," and the endearment lands between us like a slap because Sophie has never called anyone darling in her life.

I push back from the table so fast my chair scrapes the floor. Marcus stands — half-rising, one hand on the table, alarmed — and I'm already moving, already retreating, the bag swinging against my hip. The bedroom door closes behind me and I lean against it and lock it and press my forehead to the wood. On the other side I can hear Marcus breathing. He doesn't knock. He says my name once, quiet and strange, like he's testing whether it still applies.

The mirror is above the dresser. I turn to it and the woman looking back is complete. Not nearly — complete. The last pieces have fallen into place while I wasn't watching: the lines of my face have settled into their final architecture, the jaw sharp and elegant, the brow smooth, the eyes heavy-lidded and knowing. My hair falls in thick dark-blonde waves that catch the lamplight. My body — the full breasts, the nipped waist, the dramatic flare of hips — stands in Vivian's posture like it was always meant to. The bag hangs from my shoulder and its warmth spreads across my chest and I recognize the woman in the mirror. Not as Sophie. As Vivienne. The name sits in my mouth like a stone.

The mirror woman holds my gaze. Her expression is patient, amused, faintly tender — the way you'd look at a child who insists she isn't tired. I press my palm flat against the glass and feel the cold surface under Vivian's hand. Behind me, through the bedroom door, I hear Marcus sit down on the floor. The wood creaks under his weight. He's sitting against the wall, and I can picture him exactly — knees up, head back, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what just walked out of his kitchen in his girlfriend's clothes. My phone sits in the bag. I don't need to check it to know there's a message waiting. Bistro Margot. 7:30. The name Vivienne. The bag pulses warm against my ribs, and the woman in the mirror smiles with my mouth.