Who Are You?

Micah Liu.

23. 

Final year Illustration student at Oakdale Community College.

Curly brown hair. 

Green eyes. 

Lanky build. 

Average height. 

No discernible features… 

Scratch that…

Micah looked down at his left hand. Burn marks ran jaggedly down his wrist, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. Like clockwork, the burns on his face began to sting again, phantom pain searing into his skin. His doctor had assured him there was nothing physical causing it—it was his mind playing tricks on him. But it still felt real. Too real.

He closed his eyes, and suddenly, the flames were there again. He could feel the fire licking at his skin, hear the muffled ringing in his ears, and sense the world narrowing as his mind fogged, his body shutting down.

Breathe.

Micah inhaled deeply, forcing air into his lungs, his heart pounding like a frantic drum. He counted to three and exhaled slowly, trying to pull himself back to the present.

He started again.

Micah Liu. 23. Final year Illustration student at Oakdale Community College. Curly brown hair. Green eyes. Lanky build. Average height. Covered in scars.

He hadn't really looked at them—hadn't taken stock of his reflection since the accident. Some days, he woke up and looked down at his hands, surprised to see that the right one no longer mirrored the left. Then the burning would start again, hot and painful.

It's not real.

He'd spoken to a therapist online. He'd been advised to confront his injuries headfirst and accept they were part of him. 'Look in the mirror,' she'd said. 'See that you are scarred. But you are here.' 

He didn't look in the mirror anymore. Couldn't.

He was afraid that if he did, he'd see him. Ashur. The man who wasn't him, but was. After all, they had the same eyes—bright green, like crystals shimmering in an underwater cave.

"The devil's emeralds," his mother used to call them. She hated when he looked at her with those eyes, said they were haunting. Cursed.

Micah had never thought much about his eyes. Or about himself, for that matter. He'd spent most of his childhood feeling disembodied, detaching from his body to escape the pain of his environment. Sometimes, he felt like someone else entirely—a walking meat puppet piloted by a barely functioning soul.

He thought he'd outgrown those feelings. That he'd shed them when Rosa took him in, when he surrounded himself with people who actually cared. In a safe home, with friends who loved him, he'd finally started to feel real. Whole.

But now?

Now he felt like a fraud. Like an imposter wearing someone else's skin. All he wanted to do was peel it off, escape the person staring back at him in his mind.

Who are you?

Anime lied.

Reincarnation didn't make you an overpowered main character who defeats the villain and gets all the girls. It made you a scared, anxious mess who couldn't sleep for fear of triggering new memories. Who couldn't look in the mirror for fear of seeing someone else.

Micah muttered under his breath, the mantra slipping out again.

"Micah Liu. 23. Final year Illustration student at Oakdale Community College. Curly brown hair. Green eyes. Lanky build…"

"Micah, are you okay?"

His head snapped up. Rosa and Elle stood in the kitchen doorway, their expressions pinched with concern. That look—the scrunched brows and wide eyes of pure worry—had been on their faces a lot lately. It made Micah's chest tighten with guilt.

He forced a smile. "Yeah. What's up?"

Rosa and Elle exchanged a glance. They'd been doing that a lot lately too, like they were telepathically conspiring behind his back.

Rosa put down her fork. "Alright, I'm just gonna come out and say it. Micah, you look awfu—"

Elle cut in quickly. "What my lovely girlfriend is trying to say is, we're worried about you. You haven't been sleeping."

Rosa nodded, undeterred. "You zone out constantly."

"And you seem to be avoiding your reflection," Elle added.

"And worst of all…" Rosa's voice dropped, her gaze falling to Micah's untouched plate. "You haven't touched your goddamn enchiladas. You love enchiladas!"

Micah blinked down at his plate, realizing she was right. His stomach churned. He was hungry, but the thought of eating made him feel sick. He hadn't had an appetite for days.

"I'm fine, guys," he lied, trying to sound breezy. "You know the deadline for the jam is coming up. I've just been in over my head trying to make a good game."

Another glance passed between Rosa and Elle. Then Elle said softly, "Micah, these past few weeks have been awful for you. We know that. But we're worried you're… reverting back to old habits."

Micah froze.

"We're afraid that you'll…" Rosa's voice softened. "That you'll try to kill yourself again."

The words hit like a hammer. The room went silent. Even the leaky tap in the kitchen seemed to stop dripping.

"Oh," Micah said, his voice barely audible.

He'd almost forgotten about that. It was five years ago. He'd run away from home after his 18th birthday, knowing no one would come looking for him. And no one did.

Micah had been hungry, broke, and numb. He felt then exactly like he felt now—like a puppet piloted by a barely functioning soul. Rosa had been kind enough to take him in, offering him her couch to sleep on. But he'd felt undeserving. Unworthy of her kindness.

So he'd taken his puppet body on a walk.

Downtown, up the stairs of a high-rise building. Twenty floors up. When he reached the roof and gripped the banister, his conscience had been clear.

Just die. No one wants you here anyway.

Micah dragged a hand through his hair, the ghost of that memory clinging to him like smoke. He looked at Rosa and Elle now, their eyes brimming with love and worry, and felt the same familiar guilt he always did when they showed him kindness.

"I'm fine," he said again, his voice firmer this time. "Promise. I'm sorry for making you worry. I've just been busy. Speaking of…" He picked up his plate, forcing a smile. "I'm gonna take these to my room. I've got a very buggy playable character, and I'm still trying to figure out how to fix the code."

Elle sighed. "Micah…"

"You're such a shit liar," Rosa said flatly.

Micah felt his sinuses burn, tears threatening to spill. For a second, he considered telling them. About Ashur, about the reason he couldn't sleep.

But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, he said, "I'll be fine. Thanks for always looking out for me."

Elle's voice softened. "You know we love you, right?"

Micah looked at them—at Rosa, who had saved him, and Elle, who had welcomed him into their lives like family. He nodded, forcing another smile.

"Right. I love you guys too."

But as he carried his plate to his room, the words felt hollow, like they belonged to someone else.