JustLj in October PART II

Story of the Month

by me

Losing Face

The mirror knows what Maya tries to hide—

That girl who shifts like water, side to side,

Who shapes herself to fit each watching eye,

Who wears a different face for every lie.

She stood before her glass that Friday eve,

And counted all the masks she’d learned to

weave:

The smile that made her mother sigh relief,

The laugh that buried all her secret grief,

The girl who never cracked, who never bent,

The perfect, pretty, polished one they meant

To see when Maya walked into a room.

She tried them on like choosing her costume

—

First one, then two, then three stacked on her

face,

Each mask a different role, a different place

She’d learned to occupy when people

watched.

And underneath them all, her real self:

botched,

Forgotten, buried deep beneath the weight

Of all these faces she’d learned to create.

Which one tonight? she wondered, standing

there.

But as she reached to smooth her tangled

hair,

Her fingers brushed her cheek and felt—not

skin—

But smoothness, coldness, something hard

and thin.

She looked again and felt her stomach drop.

Her face—her actual face—had seemed to

stop

Existing. In its place: a blank of white,

A smooth expanse like snow, like bone, like

fright

Made manifest in porcelain and air.

She clawed at it, but nothing waited there—

No seam, no edge, no place where mask

would end

And Maya’s face begin. They couldn’t blend

Because her face was gone. Just—gone.

Erased.

The blankness where her features had been

placed

Stared back at her: no eyes, no nose, no

mouth,

Just white, white, white, expanding north to

south.

She tried to scream but had no mouth to

scream with.

Tried to cry but had no eyes to dream with.

Tried to breathe but—could she? Was she

breathing?

She couldn’t tell. Her whole self felt like

leaving,

Slipping through her fingers, through the

floor,

Dissolving into nothing anymore.

Her phone buzzed on the dresser. Twenty

texts.

From Jordan: Where are you? We’re all

preplexed.

From Alex: Party’s starting, please don’t

flake!

From Mom, downstairs: Are you okay, for

heaven’s sake?

And standing there, faceless, voiceless, gone,

Maya understood what she had done—

The years of being different for each friend,

Of twisting, changing, shifting, making her

blend

Into whatever shape they needed most.

She’d worn so many faces like a ghost

Wears different sheets, that underneath the

masks

There was no face at all to do the tasks

Of being Maya, being real, being true.

She’d given all her faces out to you—

To Jordan, Alex, Mom, to teachers, strangers,

Boys she’d kissed, to friends and all the

dangers

That came from wanting desperately to

please,

From bending herself into what would ease

Their comfort, their approval, their demand

—

Until her real face couldn’t understand

How to exist when no one else was watching.

And so it left. Her face. It went. Now mocking

Her from the void where faces go to die

When worn too thin by every different lie.

She stumbled down the stairs, the house a

blur

Of walls and sounds that didn’t comfort her.

Her mother stood there, spatula in hand,

And looked at Maya—tried to understand

The thing before her: daughter-shaped but

wrong,

A body with no face, nothing to belong

To any name or category known.

Her mother screamed. The sound cut to the

bone—

Or would have, if Maya had bones to feel.

But was she Maya still? Was she real?

Without a face to call her own, to mark

Her as distinct, unique, not just some dark

And formless nothing wearing Maya’s

clothes?

Her mother backed away. The kitchen froze

Around them both—time-stopping, breaking,

caught

Between the girl her mother knew and

thought

She’d raised, and this blank creature,

faceless, strange.

Mom, it’s me! she tried to say. No change

Occurred. No sound emerged. No voice

existed

Where her mouth had been. She’d been

enlisted

In an army of the lost, the disappeared,

The girls who wore so many masks they’ve

smeared

Away their real selves underneath the

weight.

Her mother called the police. “Please, don’t be

late,

There’s something in my house, it’s not my

daughter,

It’s—I don’t know—please send someone—”

The water

In Maya’s eyes—except she had no eyes—

Felt hot and thick. A sob without the cries.

Her mother couldn’t see her anymore.

She’d worn too many masks and now the

door

To her real self had closed, had locked, had

sealed

Her out. Her face would not be revealed

Because she’d given it away in pieces,

A little bit to each friend, until it ceases

To be whole, to be hers, to exist at all.

She ran—or did the faceless run or fall?

She moved through streets like wind, like

smoke, like fear,

And everywhere she went, people would

veer

Away from her, would scream or gasp or stare

At the blank horror of her face, the bare

Nothingness where Maya used to be.

At Jordan’s house the party raged with glee

—

Costumes and music, laughter, dancing, light.

Maya stood outside, alone, the night

Pressing around her like a living thing.

She watched through windows, saw them all:

the ring

Of friends she’d built by being who they

wanted,

By suppressing what her own heart haunted,

By swallowing her truths and speaking

theirs.

She saw the girl—was that Samira?—wearing

A mask that looked familiar: Maya’s smile,

The one she used with athletes. And

meanwhile,

Jordan wore a diffrent Maya mask—

The party girl, the wild one. Every task

Maya’d done, each role that she had played,

Was being worn by others, a parade

Of Maya faces that were not her own

Because she’d given them away. She’d sown

Her face in pieces across all her friends

Until there was no Maya. It ends

Like this: a faceless girl outside a party

Where everyone’s wearing the face she used

to be.

She pressed her hands—at least she still had

those—

Against the window glass. In rows and rows,

The party-goers danced with Maya’s faces,

Each one performing, filling in the spaces

She’d occupied with carefully crafted lies.

And none of them could see her. No surprise.

How could they recognize her when they’d

never

Seen her real face? She’d been so clever,

So careful to show each of them a version

Of herself they’d like—a careful immersion

In whoever they needed her to be.

But who was Maya when there was no

“they”?

Who was she when no one watched or

waited?

Who was she before she’d abdicated

Her own face for the faces she could wear?

She couldn’t remember. Standing there,

Faceless, voiceless, disappearing fast,

She tried to reach back to her past

And find a moment when she’d just been her

—

Not performing, not trying to defer

To someone else’s comfort or desire,

Not dampening her own internal fire

To make room for the people around her.

But every memory felt like a blur

Of different Mayas, none of them quite true.

The girl who laughed too loud. The girl who

knew

To stay quiet. The girl who played dumb.

The girl who acted smart. They’d all become

So tangled up together that she’d lost

The thread of who she was beneath the cost

Of being everything to everyone.

And now her face—her real face—was gone.

Erased. Deleted. Lost to the void

Of all the masks she’d carefully deployed.

The glass beneath her hands began to crack.

Not breaking, but responding—fighting back

Against the weight of what stood pressing

there:

A girl-shaped nothing, empty, blank, unfair

In its erasure, in its warning, in

Its horrible reminder that your skin,

Your face, your self—they’re not infinite

resources

To be divided up. There are courses

Of consequence for giving yourself away

In pieces, bit by bit, day after day,

Until there’s nothing left that’s yours alone.

The window shattered. Maya stood,

unknown

And unknowable, in Jordan’s living room.

The music stopped. The party met its doom

As everyone turned, stared, began to scream

At the faceless figure from a nightmare

dream.

Jordan ripped off Maya’s borrowed face—

The mask she’d worn—and it fell into place

On Maya’s blank expanse. But it didn’t stick.

It slid right off, like oil, slippery, slick,

Because it wasn’t hers. It was a copy,

A performance, a mask, and masks are sloppy

Imitations of the truth beneath.

Maya felt something rising like a wreath

Of thorns around her throat—a desperate

sound,

A wordless howl of grief for what she’d

drowned

In years of people-pleasing, of performing.

Of waking every day and transforming

Into whoever everyone else needed,

Until her own needs went completely

unheeded

Even by herself. Especially by herself.

The sound that came was unlike anything

else—

A shriek, a wail, a cry of pure despair

That had no mouth to shape it, only air

And anguish, emptiness and loss and rage

At what she’d done, at what the final page

Of her story might be: a blank space,

A cautionary tale of losing face.

The party guests fled screaming out the door.

But Jordan stayed—perhaps she’d seen

before

The signs that Maya’d struggled, maybe

knew

The weight her friend had carried, pushed on

through.

She picked up all the Maya masks that lay

Scattered on the floor, the ones they’d played

At being, and she held them to the light.

“Is this what you’ve been doing? Every night,

Every day, with all of us? Pretending?

Maya, this” — She gestured to the bending,

Breaking girl-shape standing blank before

her.

“This is what happens when you ignore her—

When you ignore yourself. You’ve given us

So many faces, made such a fuss

About being what we wanted, that you’ve

lost

Your real face. Maya, what’s the cost

Been like? Carrying all these different

versions?

Playing all these roles, these immersions

In whoever we needed you to be?”

The faceless Maya sank down to her knee,

Then both knees, then collapsed there on the

floor,

And Jordan sat beside her. “I wish you’d told

me more.

I wish I’d seen you—really seen you. Not

The masks. But I was comfortable with what

You showed me. It was easy. It was nice.

I didn’t ask for more. I didn’t think the price

You paid was this. I’m sorry, Maya. I’m

So sorry.” Jordan cried, and for a time

They sat there in the wreckage of the party,

Surrounded by the masks—the false, the

artsy,

The carefully constructed lies that Maya

Had worn until she’d made herself a player

With no true character, no solid core.

I don’t know how to be me anymore,

Maya tried to say. And this time, words—

Faint, fragile, quiet as the flight of birds—

Emerged from where her mouth should be. “I

lost

Myself. I gave away too much. The cost

Was everything. My face. My voice. My truth.

I spent so long performing since my youth

That I forgot that I was supposed to be

Someone underneath. There’s no more me.”

Jordan took her hand. “Then we’ll start from

scratch.

We’ll sit here, and you’ll tell me—try to catch

Whatever’s left of Maya, the real girl

Beneath the masks. Let her voice unfurl

Even if it’s small, even if it’s scared.

Tell me something true. Something you’ve

never shared

Because it didn’t fit the mask you wore

With me. Tell me something from your core.”

The faceless girl sat silent for a while.

Then, faint and small, without a mouth to

smile

Or lips to form the words, she spoke a truth:

“I’m tired. I’ve been tired since my youth.

Of smiling when I’m not happy. Of

pretending

That I’m fine when I’m not. Of bending

Myself into shapes I don’t fit. Of being

Strong when I’m breaking. Of freeing

Everyone else to be themselves while I

Stayed silent. Jordan, I don’t want to lie

Anymore. But I don’t know how to stop.

I don’t know who I am without the prop

Of all these masks, these faces, these

personas.

I’m scared that without them, I’m just a loner,

That nobody will like me if I’m real,

That my true self isn’t good enough to feel

Worthy of love or friendship or belonging.”

And as she spoke, she felt it—something

longing,

Something stirring in the blank expanse

Of where her face had been. A second

chance?

Or just the faintest outline, barely there,

Of features forming slowly in the air—

A hint of eyes, uncertain and afriad,

A shadow where a mouth might be,

half-made,

A sketch of nose, of cheeks, of chin, of brow.

“Keep going,” Jordan whispered. “Tell me now

More truths. Tell me things you’ve hidden,

buried,

Swallowed down because you were worried

They’d make you seem less perfect, less ideal.”

And Maya spoke. And speaking what was

real—

However small, however scared, however

Imperfect—seemed to tether her together,

To pull her back from the void she’d fallen in.

“I’m jealous sometimes. I’ve told lies. My skin

Breaks out and I feel ugly. I don’t always

Want to go to parties. Some days

I want to scream at my mother. I’m not sure

What I want to do with my life. The pure

Truth is I’m confused and I’m scared

And I’m lonely even when I’m surrounded.

I’ve dared

Myself to be perfect for so long

That I don’t know how to just be wrong.

Or messy, or imperfect, or just me.”

And with each truth, more of her face would

be

Restored—still faint, still fragile, barely there,

But forming, slowly, in the darkened air.

It took all night. It took confession, tears,

It took admitting all her secret fears,

Her doubts, her anger, all the parts she’d

hidden

To be acceptable, to seem unbidden

By darkness or complexity or pain.

And slowly, slowly, like the gentlest rain,

Her features came back, piece by trembling

piece—

Though changed, somehow. A if the release

Of truth had altered how her face would

form.

This face was softer, less concerned with

norm

And expectation. This face could frown

Or cry or show confusion, could be down

Without apology. This face was real.

And Maya touched it, tried to learn to feel

The angles of her cheekbones, her own nose,

The way her mouth curved, the way it chose

To sit when no one else was watching her.

“It’s strange,” she whispered. “I’m not even sure

This is what I looked like before. It feels

Different. New.” She ran her fingers, peels

Away the tears. “But it’s mine. It’s really mine.

Not borrowed, not performed. I think I’ll find

It’s harder, wearing just my own true face.

People won’t always like it. Some will chase

The other Mayas, the masks I used to wear.

But I can’t do that anymore. I swear

I’ll never wear a mask again. I’ll be

Uncomfortable. Imperfect. I’ll just be me.”

Jordan smiled. “You’ll lose some friends.

Maybe

Some of us can’t handle that. But maybe

Some of us have been waiting all along

For the real you. Maybe we were wrong

To let you hide. Maybe we should have asked

Why you kept your self so carefully

masked.”

The sun rose slowly over Jordan’s house,

And Maya stood before the mirror, doused

In morning light, and looked upon her face—

Her real face, earned back through truth and

grace,

Through painful honesty, through letting

down

The walls, the masks, the performance, the

renown

That came from being everything to all

This face was hers. And if some friends would

call

It strange, or diffrent, or too much, too real,

Then they weren’t friends who’d help her

heal.

She touched her cheek—warm skin, real skin,

no mask—

And thought about the monumental task

Ahead of her: to live each day as herself,

To take her authentic self off the shelf

Where she’d hidden her away for years.

It wouldn’t be easy. There would be tears

And moments when the old urge to perform

Would rise up like a siren, like a swarm

Of voices telling her to shape-shift, hide,

To tuck her real self back away inside

And wear the masks that made life easier,

smooth.

But Maya’d learned the terrible, hard truth:

That masks might ease the moment, ease the

day,

But worn too long, too much, they’d take

away

Not just your face—your actrual, real face—

But all of you. They’d strip you, leave no trace

Of who you were beneath. They’d eat you

whole.

And so she’d carry foward with her soul

Laid bare, her face her own, her voice her true

Voice, even when it shook. She’d muddle

through

With imperfection, mess, and raw humanity.

Better to be real—to just be me—

Than lose yourself to masks you wear for

others.

Better to find the friends who’ll be your

brothers

And sisters in truth, who’ll love you as you

are.

Maya walked home as the morning star

Faded into daylight, and her face—

Her own, true,

earned-back-through-confession face—

Felt strange and new and terrifying and right.

She’d lost her face that one October night.

But in the losing, in the horror, in the void,

She’d learned what mattered: not to be

deployed

In service of others’ comfort, not to wear

A different face for every person there.

The lesson cost her everything to learn:

That masks will take and take, they’ll burn

Away your face, your voice, yourself, your

core,

Until there’s nothing of you anymore.

Be yourself. Your real, imperfect, messy self.

Don’t leave your true face sitting on a shelf

While you perform for others. It’s not worth

The cost. You only get one face from birth—

Wear it. Own it. Let it be enough.

The world may say that you should be more

tough,

More pretty, more compliant, more like this

Or that. Resist. Remember Maya’s kiss

With horror, her encounter with the void.

Your face is yours. Don’t let it be destroyed

By wearing masks for others. Just be true.

The greatest gift you’ll ever give is you.

What I’m Currently Working on

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