Me.

It was a Thursday morning when I locked gazes with the lady sitting directly opposite me in the train carriage. I blushed and looked down immediately, because I had been staring at her legs unabashedly, and she knew. They were unshaved. It was so weird. I was so amazed.

The lady was so pretty—decked in all black that accentuated her curves; light brown eyes dramatically shadowed with layers and layers of eyeliner and mascara.

But: hairy legs. It stunned me. I knew shaving was a choice, but there was still a stigma surrounding hairy girls, and I felt so naked—as if the entire world were zooming in on my legs—every time stubble grew back. I almost ran late for school that day because I had refused to leave the house without running the razor across my legs. And here she was, with razor-sharp confidence.

I followed her movements discreetly. Not in a stalker-ish way of course, but with admiration. I wanted to be like her. Confident, unashamed. I noticed the way her eyes darted to the phone in her hand, as if anticipating for something. And how she shrugged and squared her shoulders occasionally, as if trying to shake off phantoms around her.

And when she left, I saw the way she clenched and unclenched her fist.

The Stranger.

She had come to hate the familiar buzz of her phone against the flesh of her palm.

Months ago, it was a electrifying thrill. Her nerves would start to tingle and her heart would flutter like a hummingbird’s wings.

What’re you doing, babe?

I miss you, darling.

Hey, come over tonight?

She would break into a crazy smile, the kind that threatened to split her face in half. Her facial muscles would complain but all she heard was the vibration against flesh, the little happy ‘ding’ that signaled an incoming text.

Then the texts came less frequently, and her eyes would glance impatiently at the blank screen, willing it to light up with one of his silly endearing messages. She constantly felt phantom buzzing, but there were no other texts ever since that day. She clenched her fist tightly, blinked, and slowly let it unfurl. The phantom still lingered anyway.

The final text came on a Wednesday night. The air was heavy and sticky, like melted ice-cream on a child’s fingers. The city was full of sighs—from the public buses, from the automatic doors of closed shopping centers, from her. She was entangled amongst her blankets, one leg in and one leg out, mechanically pressing her phone ‘on’ and ‘off’.

On. The screen illuminated her tired face. A flying ant bumped against the lit up screen.

Off. She tossed in her bed, her left hand touching the empty space beside her. The mattress sunk slightly with the weight of her thoughts.

On. No texts from him.

Off. Her eyes fluttered shut. She tried to recall how it felt to fall asleep with his husky goodbyes wrapped around her like protection.

On. A text.

A text…A text?!

The vibration came a little late. Delayed. But so was her reaction.

She propped herself up and tapped the screen with trembling fingers.

I’m sorry. I love you but I’m not in love with you anymore. I’m so sorry.

Her phone slipped from her hand. The screen faded to black. She tried to steady her breathing with the rhythm of her whirring ceiling fan. And then she tucked herself to bed.

That night, it felt like sticky hands were choking her. Phantoms haunted her till dawn.

***

Thursday morning. Her phone buzzed with her alarm. The screen lit up. No other texts from him. Just numbers glaring at her: 6:05 AM. Wake up and move on.

She wore black from top to bottom like an armor. She didn’t need protection from his words. Black turtleneck despite the humid heat, black shorts that exposed her hairy legs he always mocked her about.

Suddenly, she’s grateful that she didn’t shave them even when he tried to get her to. She made tea out of the bags under her eyes and she clenched and unclenched her fist.

During the train ride, she felt a teenage girl stare at her legs intently. More than disgust, there was awe…admiration. So, instead of tucking her legs under the seat, she felt compelled to cross them, with her black stiletto heel dangling from her foot.

She felt confident, empowered, free. She forced herself to shut her phone off, dispelled the phantoms around her and clenched and unclenched her fist.

She would be OK.

—By Jean L., 17, Singapore