I remember, when I used to live with my family I was never happy. Always criticizing and finding flaws in myself and my surroundings, which used to make me feel low. Insecurities brewing more than the actual reality.
My fingers don't wrap around my arm.
I wish my lips were thinner.
I look disfigured.
I am abnormally tall.
Hair...so lifeless and dull.
Eyes so sad, so sad and brown.
I would look at others and wonder how it felt to be comfortable in their own skin, their own body, and accepting it. Loving themselves and not being bothered by what people said their supposed imperfections were. It came to such a point where I would stop looking at the mirror and avoid it at all costs. Not that I needed it because my family never failed to do so. A constant reminder of what I had and much more.
Things were different when I met Liza. She made me feel strangely okay to be me. A concept lost, new and strangely welcoming. It felt different to not be shamed for looking a certain way, looking like me, when they would go to extreme lengths to look presentable and perfect like a twisted doll house with perfectly etched smiles on their faces. Fake yet charming enough to pretend and lure others in believing what wasn't there.
That familiar feeling came rushing to me faster than a cold breath of lifeless air, gripping me, clenching my soul as I shrivelled and looked at the perfect man sitting on the bench placed near the piano. He was playing a tune, smooth and slow, too busy to notice me. The sound of the door must have disturbed his bubble because he spared a glance towards the doorway without looking at me in the eye.
I quietly went to my seat in the middle of the classroom and took out my notebook, trying to distract myself from the feeling, brushing it off. I was done being that way.
My eyes darted towards the man in front of the class to take a quick inquisitive peek as the other kids piled into the class, ready to start their lessons, while he kept playing the piano, gliding his fingers on the keys as if he was touching something very delicate.
Now that I could not see his eyes, I was able to see his lean yet strong built, his features were sharp. Sharp jaw, sharp nose, almost like the distinctive features of Russian ethnicity. He had brown hair that looked softer than my pillow, shoulders not too broad but perfect. He was wearing a full-sleeved white shirt and pants, a formal attire of perfect poise. I could not have a glimpse of his shoes, but I am sure that they were shiny and polished like a mirror. There was this odd aura surrounding him, heavy in the air, demanding control and domination.
This strange new man was anything but a student.
And I had a good guess who he was.
He was our new music teacher.