Here is the boy. Staring.



He looks down at his own face, but doesn't recognize what looks back at him. It's not necessarily wrong; it just isn't right, as if the details of his face are hidden behind a thin fog. He stares dead into his eyes.



Those, he recognizes.



They're the same blue/green/gray shade they've always been. Although, today, they're more on the gray side. They have been for a few weeks now. He looks up at the top of his head. His hair is longer than it should be. He starts scanning down his face, counting up the features that aren't quite right. His nose is too small, his face is too round, his eyebrows are too thin.



Something fluttering in the corner of his eye draws his attention away from the mirror. He sees nothing moving.



When he looks back up, his attention in on his shoulders. They aren't quite broad enough; at least, not as broad as he thought he remembered them being. He hears footsteps coming down the hallway.



"Lily, are you up yet?"



"Lucas," he corrects, too quiet for his mother to hear. Instead, he yells back, "Yeah, just getting dressed!"



He looks down at the clothes he slept in (a large shirt and a pair of hand-me-down pajama pants) and strips them off. His pace isn't hurried, but he isn't dragging it out, either.



He returns his focus to the mirror.



He looks over his body once more. Not quite with disgust, but not quite with affection. He doesn't hate his body; he just feels like it isn't his.


Slowly, his hands come up to the breasts attached to him. At first they rest there, simply holding them in place. He squeezes them once, for no particular reason other than he could. He lets his hands return to his sides.


His sides.


He looks at his body, the most prominent thought running through his head being "Why am I so curvy?" He looks inward from his hips - between his legs - and is disappointed to see nothing there.


Down go his eyes, to his shins. Freshly shaven and smooth. Not his. His feet are smaller and skinnier than he feels they should be.


He hears a knock on the door and startles.


"O-one second!" he yells back, hurriedly grabbing clothes out of his drawers. He hates the way his voice sounds. He could've sworn he remembered it being deeper.


"Mom said we're leaving in five minutes," his younger sister tells him through the door.


He finishes putting on his clothes and takes one final look in the mirror.


He focuses on his eyes.


He whispers to himself, "maybe tomorrow."