Scars of Devotion

Emily Parker’s POV New York never sleeps, but I do. Too much. I sleep to escape the mirrors, the stares, and the way my reflection seems to mock me. Growing up in Manhattan with my cousin Samantha was like living next to a billboard. Everywhere we went, people noticed her, her hair like gold spun under the city lights, her perfect smile, and her confidence that walked into a room before she did. And then there was me: Emily Parker. Average. Forgettable. “Why can’t you be more like Samantha?” My Aunt Margaret would sneer whenever she thought I was within earshot. As if I needed reminding. I learned early that invisibility was safer than ridicule. So, I kept my head down, buried myself in books, and let Samantha soak up the spotlight. But that night, sitting in my tiny Brooklyn apartment with the sounds of traffic humming through the window, loneliness clawed at me in a way I couldn’t ignore. I clicked open a dating site. I told myself it was just curiosity. Just a distraction. But when I hovered over the “upload photo” button, my stomach twisted. My own face stared back at me from the gallery; plain, tired, shadowed by every insecurity Aunt Margaret ever planted in me. Then my eyes landed on a picture of Samantha. She was laughing, hair falling in waves, sunlight catching her cheekbones. Beautiful in a way that stopped people in their tracks. Before I could talk myself out of it, I uploaded her photo instead of my own. Just for fun. Just for a laugh. No harm. I hit save. The first message came within minutes. RyanCarter88: Hi, I’m Ryan. I stared at the screen. My pulse kicked. His profile picture showed a man in his thirties, tall, with dark hair and a smile that seemed both warm and heavy with something unspoken. He looked like the kind of man who belonged in boardrooms and glossy magazines, not messaging me—well, not me. Still, my fingers trembled as I typed: EmilyP: Hi Ryan. Nice to meet you. Honestly… I didn’t think you’d reply. A pause. Then his message blinked onto the screen. RyanCarter88: Why not? I bit my lip, typing fast. EmilyP: Because you look like someone who doesn’t even have time for strangers online. Another pause. My chest tightened. Maybe I’d blown it. Then… RyanCarter88: Sometimes strangers are easier to talk to than friends. I exhaled shakily. And just like that, I was hooked. Days turned into nights filled with words. We talked about books, music, and the city. He told me he liked running along the Hudson at dawn when the skyline was still half-asleep. I told him I liked writing in coffee shops with chipped mugs and scratched tables because they felt lived-in, like me. Our conversations flowed so easily that I sometimes forgot the face on my profile wasn’t mine. Sometimes. Until he’d say something like: “You must be used to men falling at your feet,” Ryan teased one evening. I laughed, covering my face, though he couldn’t see me. “Hardly.” “You’re kidding, right? I bet heads turn wherever you go.” His words burned. I wanted to scream, no, they don’t. Not for me. They turn for Samantha. But instead, I forced a laugh. “Maybe once or twice.” Lies. Tiny, poisonous lies. One night, his voice cracked through the line, softer than I’d ever heard it. “Emily, there’s something I should tell you.” My throat tightened. “Okay…” “My fiancée passed away. Two months ago.” Silence stretched between us. My heart clenched. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. He let out a bitter laugh. “It’s fine. I just… I didn’t think I’d ever laugh again. Then you showed up.” I pressed my palm to my mouth, tears blurring my vision. He thought she, Samantha’s face, and Samantha’s smile were saving him. And yet it was my words, my jokes, and my sleepless nights he clung to. God, what was I doing? The first time he asked for a video call, I panicked. “Tomorrow?” his text read. “I just want to see you. Hear your laugh for real.” I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. My excuses came quickly, rehearsed in my head like lines of a play. EmilyP: I… I can’t. Not tomorrow. Bad connection here. He replied almost instantly. RyanCarter88: Emily. You’re hiding something. I froze. My chest heaved. I typed, deleted, and retyped. EmilyP: No. I’m just shy. I don’t like cameras. Please understand. A long pause. I chewed my lip until it bled. Then his reply popped up: RyanCarter88: Alright. But soon, Emily. I need real. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the city lights flickering outside my window. My lie felt heavier than the skyline itself, pressing down on me until I could hardly breathe. If only he knew. If only he could love me. Not the face I borrowed. Not the cousin I’d envied all my life. Just Emily. But Emily Parker wasn’t the kind of girl men like Ryan Carter noticed. And so, I whispered into the dark, my confession swallowed by the hum of New York traffic: “One more lie. Just one more. Then I’ll stop.” But I didn’t stop. And deep down, I knew… this was only the beginning. Ryan’s messages became the highlight of my day. Each notification lit up my screen like a secret spark, pulling me out of the shadows I had wrapped myself in for years. Sometimes, I would catch myself smiling at the phone like a teenager, grinning at words only I could see. It was dangerous, intoxicating, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop. Late one evening, as the rain tapped against my window, Ryan sent another message. RyanCarter88: Tell me something no one else knows about you. I froze, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. The truth? That my entire presence in his world was borrowed, stolen from someone who would never understand the damage her beauty did to me? No. I couldn’t say that. So I typed instead: EmilyP: I used to dream of being invisible. Now I dream of being seen. The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly. RyanCarter88: I see you. Even if you don’t believe it. Those words… they sank into me deeper than I wanted to admit. My heart raced, and I hugged my knees against my chest as though holding myself together. If he knew the real me, would he still see me at all? Days blurred into weeks. I started carrying my phone everywhere—on subway rides, in crowded coffee shops, even to bed, waiting for the familiar buzz that tethered me to him. One night, after a particularly long silence, I gave in and messaged first. EmilyP: Still awake? His reply came after a minute. RyanCarter88: Barely. But I couldn’t sleep without hearing from you. I laughed quietly, brushing away the sting of tears. For once, someone was waiting for me. Wanting me. Not Samantha. Not her reflection. Me. Or at least the version of me that wore her face. Sometimes I almost slipped, almost typed something too raw, too real. But every time, fear clamped down. If the truth came out, I’d lose him. And losing Ryan felt like losing air itself. One Sunday afternoon, while sunlight spilled lazily through my curtains, he surprised me with another question. RyanCarter88: If I showed up outside your door right now, what would you do? I blinked at the screen, my throat dry. The image of him standing outside my shabby Brooklyn building flashed in my mind, the disappointment on his face when he realized the woman he thought he loved didn’t exist. My chest ached, but I forced myself to answer. EmilyP: I’d invite you in. And maybe make coffee… or burn toast trying. His laughter reply came quickly. RyanCarter88: Then I’ll risk it. I like my toast burnt anyway. I closed my eyes, clutching the phone to my chest, imagining a life where that could be true. Where he could walk into my world and not turn away in disgust. Where he could choose me—not the lie, not Samantha’s beauty—but me. But fairytales weren’t written for girls like Emily Parker. Still, as the city buzzed and another night folded into silence, I found myself whispering promises to no one. That tomorrow, I would tell him the truth. That tomorrow, I’d stop hiding. And yet, when tomorrow came, I only dug the lie deeper.