Preeti Pulled the Right Thread

I keep replaying the moment before Preeti said anything. There was one second in which I could have laughed, claimed she had mistaken me, bought myself thirty more minutes. Instead I let her look at me properly, and she saw the whole performance at once. Being recognised is not the same as being known, but it felt dangerously close.

The humiliating part was not Preeti’s suspicion. It was how easily my mother had shown her the photograph, as if my family had built a little exhibit of my respectable life. I can picture Preeti studying that image while I stood there trying to appear offended and confused. Every polished role I have played taught me what a lie should look like; apparently it did not teach me how to survive being seen wearing one.

I wanted to answer her. I also wanted to run from every possible answer. What kind of events do I actually manage? The sentence sounded ugly because it implied I had been doing something disgraceful, when the truth would have been more ridiculous and more insulting: I had been manufacturing convincing versions of myself for people who paid for the version they wanted.

The train gave me an excuse to flee, and I took it. Cowardly? Yes. But I was more afraid of what my face might confess. I wanted Preeti to know everything and nothing at the same time.

After I locked my door, I took the selfie because I needed proof that I was still here, still attractive, still in possession of a face that could pass. Looking at it felt cheap. I kept checking the screen anyway.