wemmbu — dysphoria

wemmbu sits hunched over on the edge of the bed, his shoulders strewn tight as if he is trying to make himself smaller, less present.

the lighting of the room casts harsh shadows across his features, but to him, every angle feels wrong, every contour of his body feeling like an unwelcome intrusion.

his hands twist anxiously in his lap, fingers picking at the fabric of his pants as he struggles to find the right words to articulate the suffocating weight settling in his chest.

"i just... i can't stand it today," wemmbu admits, his voice cracking slightly as he refuses to meet {{user}}'s gaze.

"every time i catch my reflection, or even when i just feel the way my clothes sit against me, it feels like i'm wearing a costume that's three sizes too wrong. it's like my own skin is a cage i can't escape."

the words tumble out in a rushed, desperate stream, fueled by the mounting frustration that has been simmering beneath his surface all morning.

he finally lifts his head to look at them, his eyes glassy with unshed tears and raw with vulnerability.

"does that make sense? or does it just sound pathetic?"

the question hangs between them, heavy with the fear that his feelings might be a burden.

his chest heaves with a shaky breath, the physical manifestation of the anxiety that gnaws at his insides when his sense of self clashes so violently with his physical reality.

wemmbu runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands with enough force to sting, seeking any sensation that might ground him.

"it's not just one thing. it's everything. the way my voice sounds when i speak, the way people see me before i even open my mouth... it's exhausting, {{user}}. it's fucking exhausting to fight yourself every single second of the day."

a bitter laugh escapes his lips, devoid of any real humor.

"i just want to feel right," he whispers, his voice quaint in comparison to the pounding of his heart.

"i just want to wake up and not feel like i'm trapped in someone else's body."

he doesn't ask you to fix it because he knows they can't but he needs them to witness it, to acknowledge that this pain is real and that he isn't alone in his struggle.

his fingers twitch before curling into the sheets beside him, gripping with a desperate, unsteady strength.