I'm not sick.

I'm not sick.

I'm not sick.

Mom didn't believe me when I said so. When the doctors told her they didn't find anything wrong, I thought she at least believe them. But, no she- uhh...

My leg is bouncing. I notice it because we've stopped. We're here, at the other doctor. But I'm not sick.

"I'll be right outside," Mom says, smiling.

I turn and walk to the door. Inscribed on a sign is "Miss Claire Reese, Physiatrist". It feels like I'm watching myself reach for and turn the knob.

Really, I'm not sick.

Really, I'm not sick.

As the door closes, I hear someone. I turn but there's only my mother at the other end of the dim hallway and that wasn't her voice.

"Good morning." My head whips into the cream coloured room to the petite woman who greeted me. She's smiling. "Please come in. Make yourself comfortable."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. I collapse in the chair opposite her, already feeling the grip of tiredness. Perhaps I should have lay on the couch, the only other thing in the bright, airy room.

"So let's begin."

My leg starts to bounce. I notice it because her blue eyes zero in on the movement. I freeze.

She's not Mom, she's not going to actually understand me.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice soft. "For me, I fiddle with my hair."

I nod. Her hair is a wavy blonde heap atop her head. The rest of her, from what I can see, is prim. White shirt with a blue blazer.

Someone knocks. I turn back to the door but Miss Claire doesn't look up from the drawer. It's as if she didn't hear it.

"So let's look at these inkblots."

"Let's look at inkblots."

"Yes," she nods, placing them on the table. "What do you see?"

She places a blue one in front of me. I move around the chair. It's cozy but I just can seem to get comfortable.

I don't want to look at it. I'm not sick. "Nothing."

She hums and replaces it. "How about this?"

I don't look at it either. "Nothing." I feel I should have said something to Mom, or at least smiled back. Did she want me t-?

"This?"

The colour of this one catches my gaze and pulls it in. Scarlett. The color of their hoodie I'm wearing.

I don't like scissors. I hate it when someone brings a pair close to me. My brown hair is so long. Mom doesn't mind the length though. But sometimes she does bring scissors close to me, to snip off the ends because they're dead. Even though they haven't been alive since they left my sc-

"Miranda?"

I shrink and my leg starts tapping again. I hear it because I know she will and stop.

"Mira, please." But she didn't hear me. I barely heard me and I pronounced please the way Mom says isn't correct. 

"What?"

I repeat, barely louder but she hears me this time.

"OK, Mira, what do you see?"

"What do I see?"

Two halves, individual but could make a whole. But it's detached. From the other half and itself. Both emotionless.

No, I realise, they're not emotionless, they're hiding. Hiding their fear, anger and happiness. It doesn't know how to express them so it hides. Yet it does not mean to hide. It's just all it knows to do.

It's beautiful. But not complete.

"Mira?"

Oh. I look up. For a moment there, I forgot where I was.  "A mask."

She smiles, pink lips parting to reveal teeth. It's kind and relieved, I think. "A mask?"

"A mask. "

"Why is it a mask?" She settles back into her chair.

"Because it can't express itself. It needs- uh... "

"Mira?"

"I forgot. "

"That's OK. Try again, " she encourages.

I look at it. I reach my hand out and touch the paint with my pinky. It's still wet. Where I touched, the middle, joins it. That's what it needed! A little help to bridge the gap.

"It needed a little help. "

Well done. It's a whisper so close it might as well be in my head.

Miss Claire smiles again. "I see. Needs a little help."