I used to feel disgusted for a long time before we finally broke up. Every time he spoke, every time he smiled, I would ask myself the same question: What is this? How did you end up with someone like that?

It’s like confessing to a mistake yet still not realizing how you even made it in the first place. Did I love him? 

I was cheerful back then… but after that, I stopped smiling. Did I grow up? Or what exactly happened? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that now I have different kinds of smiles.

Though, most of the time, I feel like I’m nothing but a corpse. No, wait—rather, a skeleton trying its hardest to smile, fully aware that its smile… is terrifying. Ah, ah—I’m just joking, I’m joking. I actually resemble a cow more in this moment. I think cows have beautiful smiles, don’t they? I’m sure of it because I fall in love with myself every time I smile. Not that I’m saying I’m a cow… but we do share some similarities.

Do you remember my name? Mmm, yes… my name is Josie. Where do I live? I live inside the writer’s imagination. Or, if you want, I can describe where I am right now.

I’m in the middle of somewhere… it looks like a room. Surrounded by walls—white walls. Stark white, like I’m inside a box… but a white one. I’m lying in the center, my back against the floor, holding a picture in my hands. I’m gazing at it with such fondness while my long black strands of hair spread over the floor. Even the floor is pure white.

And now, I tilt my head, shifting my gaze away from the picture, looking at you instead.

"Hello."

Ah, I just said hello. See? I have a beautiful smile.

Alright, let me sit up. I rise ever so gently, stretching my neck and shoulders with a faint crack. Now I’ve fixed my posture, but I’m still holding the picture in my hand.

What picture? Mmm… it’s a secret.

Fine, I’ll turn it over and place it beside me.

Here. Right here. Come closer.

"Hello… I’m Josie."

I said that softly, smiling once again. How is my smile?

This is my place. A place where I live alone, with nothing but the picture beside me on the floor.

Why white? Ah… I love cleanliness. That’s why I love seeing white stretching endlessly before my eyes.

In truth… I love black. Or maybe blue. I don’t know. What are the things I truly love? I wonder about that. But I always answer myself the same way: Do I really have to love or prefer something?

There are things that appeal to me, but that admiration fades once I get used to their presence or see them too often up close.

Ah, ah… though, there is something I do and actually enjoy. I collect perfumes. I have a whole shelf filled with different kinds.

But here’s the strange part—I never use them.

I have an allergy. Mmm, no, not really an allergy… more like heightened senses. I can’t wear perfume at all; it suffocates me and scatters my thoughts.

Ah, that’s right…

But that’s not me talking. That’s the writer expressing her own oddities. How can someone collect things they can’t even use? I’d bet that shelf reeks—an overwhelming, nauseating kind of fragrance.

Stay out of my words. Give me my space.

"Hey."

I lift my hand and wave at you.

"I’m here."

I mean, I’m still in my place, staring at the emptiness ahead of me, sitting in the same position.

I’m here to talk about something.

But… what was it?

Let me stretch for a bit.

I return to my original position, lying on my back again, watching the horizon.

I wish the ceiling—no, I wish I were gazing at a starry sky. Or maybe the aurora.

Ah… I would love that.

Did I reach my hand upward?

Yes.

Here I am again, smiling.

That gentle smile I wouldn’t dare—no, that I don’t like showing in public.

I love smiling to myself, softly, a lot.

But should I smile in public too?

Wouldn’t that be unsettling?

Most killers… they smile as they walk past, as if saying, Hello, we’re just like you. We can smile gently too.

"Hello… I can smile just like the killers do too. But can I kill?"

That last sentence…

That one is mine.

I’m Josie.