The Truth of Me - Chapter 2
A Crack in the Mask
Ella shuffled into her bedroom, letting the weight of the day collapse onto her shoulders. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing off the world outside. Here, in her space, she didn’t need to wear the mask.
The walls were painted a deep slate grey, adorned with shelves lined with poetry books, dark candles, and framed black-and-white photographs she’d taken herself. A single string of dim fairy lights cast the room in a soft glow, a sharp contrast to the fluorescent brightness of school. Ella kicked off her sneakers and sank onto her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She reached for her journal, the battered black notebook that held her truest thoughts. Flipping to an empty page, she let the pen glide across the paper.
Her pen hesitated, the ink pooling on the page.
I wonder what would happen if I showed them the real me.
The thought had lingered in her mind for weeks now, an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. Every time she pushed it away, it returned stronger, more insistent. Could she really do it? Could she go to school as herself—not Ella the Pop Princess, but Ella the Thinker, Ella who wore black and didn’t laugh unless she truly meant it?
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.
“Ella?” Her mom’s voice was soft. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Coming,” Ella replied, closing the journal. She didn’t need her mom asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
At the dinner table, her mom and dad chatted about their day while Ella picked at her food. Her mom noticed, as she always did.
“Everything okay at school?”
“Yeah. Same as usual,” Ella replied quickly, not meeting her mom’s eyes. She wasn’t lying, not really. It was the same: the same pretending, the same aching for something more.
Her dad changed the subject, talking about a new project at work, and Ella let her mind drift. She imagined walking into school tomorrow in her favourite outfit: a sleek black dress, her silver moon necklace, and combat boots scuffed at the edges. She’d ditch the pastel colours and fake smiles. She wouldn’t force herself to laugh at jokes she didn’t find funny.
But then came the voice in her head, sharp and critical:
What if they laugh again? What if they hate you?
Later that night, Ella stood in front of her closet, running her fingers over the hangers. On one side were the clothes she wore to school—bright tops, denim skirts, pastel sweaters. On the other were the pieces that felt like home: black cardigans, dark jeans, her favourite leather jacket.
Her fingers hesitated on a black velvet dress she hadn’t worn in months. She pulled it out, holding it against herself in the mirror. A spark of courage flickered in her chest.
“This is who I am,” she whispered.
She put the dress back carefully, deciding. Tomorrow, she would walk into school as the real Ella. No mask. No pretending.