When I was young, people always told me I would be a heartbreaker. I don’t think this is what they meant. I stare in the mirror and pick apart my dull features. Dark circles ringed my too small eyes, the effects of a hundred poor nights sleep. My forehead, too large and starting to wrinkle from worry at only the age of 27. I tried Botox once, but it made me feel fake. It doesn’t matter how hard I pretend or how much plastic I fill my body full of; I’ll always be who I am. I tear myself to pieces in front of the mirror, telling myself what everyone else must already be thinking.

‘You look tired.’

‘Are you okay? You don’t look like yourself.’

‘You should smile more.’

I contort my face into a smile, pulling my lips up at the edges, trying to make it reach my eyes. It looks fake, I relax my face back into the semi-permanent scowl that has dominated my features recently.

A quick knock on the door brings me back to reality. Loud music pours in from bar as I open it, the doorknob sticky and the hinges squealing with age. I return to the counter and slide onto the stool with the grace and elegance of a toddler who has yet to learn the size of its own body. I flag down the bartender and point to my empty glass, indicating the need for another round. As he pours my tequila, I wonder to myself if I’ll make it to work tomorrow. Someone I bound to notice soon- my poor attendance and unprofessional appearance likely will end the career I worked so hard to obtain. I down the drink in one quick gulp and slide the glass back across the counter. The warmth of the alcohol slivers down my throat and spreads into my chest, making it even more challenging to care about the things that used to dominate my life. The bartender raises an eyebrow at me.

“C’mon. It can’t be that bad. Smile.”

I put exact change on the bar and get up from my seat. I wouldn’t have tipped him even if I could afford to.

I stumble out of the bar and into the cold night air, breathing deeply. It burns my nose. I think of my daughter, at home by herself, waiting for a bedtime story that will never come. I think of my mother, up late at night worrying about whether or not I’ll make it home. I think of myself, at the age of 16, a smile on my face dreaming of what the future will hold. When I was young, people always told me I would be a heartbreaker. I don’t think this is what they meant.