Stranger In My Bed.
I woke up that morning to sunbeams fighting their way through my blinds. Only a few made it in. One specifically streamed through the dent in the third blind, and landed on the pillow next to me. That’s when I noticed the stranger in my bed.
I wanted to scream, but the shock silenced me. The stranger looked tired, and there was a sadness to her being. It resonated all the way to her heart, and wallowed in her soul. I could tell that her eyes once used to be bold, bright and full of life. Now, they were sullen and dull from disappointment and self-loathe.
The stranger woke up, tears streaming down the sides of her face. I looked her dead in the eyes and saw her story. The stranger was weak. The stranger didn’t think she was enough. The stranger hated herself. The stranger accepted less than she deserved. She didn’t respect herself. She thought she was ugly. She obsessed over negativity. She was alone. She couldn’t sleep at night.
I blinked twice, and couldn’t believe who I saw. The stranger was me.