I'm not pretty. Throughout my teenage years, I have despised everything about myself—my school, my lack of intelligence and talent, my body, and my sexuality. And if I say this out loud, they will just make fun of me.

I go to school every day; life is normal for me, at least on the surface. The monotonous routine kills me, but I have to endure everything. After all, I’ve lived in this school for more than five years, so what’s to hurt if there’s one more year?

As I stare at the ceiling past midnight; my medals hang from the curtain holder, a faint light glows far away, and my thoughts scream as though they were across the room from me, I wonder why I can’t be like my classmates: one is smart, one’s great at music, and one’s good at sports. With my current skillset, I couldn't even stand on the same footing as them: in writing, someone was always much better than me. It feels as though everyone solves mathematics more easily than I do, and when I solve a difficult problem, it feels like everyone can simply solve it in one go.

My mind slips through reality again. I sleep uncomfortably, with my thoughts and my eyes equally heavy, and my body exhausted from hours of commute, I remember what my guidance counselor said:

“You don’t have to compare yourself.”

I mean, she was right. Nevertheless, I just had that itch to compare myself, not just to others, but to my past selves as well. I kept thinking about other students who got into Pisay—and me, who didn’t even know such a school existed. I kept thinking about my batchmates who were chosen for all sorts of competitions, from sports to academics—and me, who was rejected for DSPC at the last minute.

Yet, they still say I'm smart: my friends, my teachers, and my parents. I can't fathom their logic: I can't get a gold medal, I can't function properly most of the time. I have talent, but I suspect it isn't enough. I have the capability to soar, but my wings never seem wide enough to carry me where others effortlessly fly.

And if my intelligence cannot save me, what will? When I see my face in the mirror, I pick apart every insecurity I have: my large nose, my thin eyes, my long eyelashes, my face shape, and my hair, and always exaggerate each and every ugly detail about me. I hate this. I hate every part of it. I will always despise what I see.

No one can help me. Not even the words of my guidance counselor. Not my friends who come and go like the wind. Not the Internet with its motivational quotes. I'm not pretty. And even if anyone thinks I am, well, pretty isn't pretty, I guess.

The Frontman