"The day after my birthday, something will change," I think, rolling restlessly in my bed on Friday. But what exactly? Maybe I can stop pretending, or maybe I will disappear. "The day after my twenty-first birthday will be Monday," I say aloud during my training on Saturday morning. I might take off the masks that protect those close to me from getting hurt. "The day after my birthday, everything might change," I cry inwardly as I perfect my make-up. Maybe I don't have to look perfect anymore, or I'll disappear for hours, or for a day, or forever, because after my birthday, no one will care. No one will call, they won't care as much as they do now. "On Monday, the day after my twenty-first birthday, something has to change," my soul cries. The stale cake in the fridge, the brightly coloured wrapping paper and make-up removal tissues in the bin will be the last remnants of the perfect celebration of my perfect little life. "When I am twenty-one," I write, "I will be able to cry out loud or the pain will become unbearable". Then I will probably be able to answer my eleven-year-old self's most frequently asked question: "Does it get better?"
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