Fragments of a Hollow Self

The bathroom smells of cheap cologne and regret. Dim fluorescent lights hum above, flickering in protest against their own existence. The cracked mirror reflects a man I no longer want to be.

My fingers tremble as I peel off my worn-out hoodie, the fabric damp with the sweat of anxiety. My eyes dart to the locked door, then back to the duffel bag at my feet. Inside, my salvation. My metamorphosis. My escape.

The first outfit I pull out is a pristine suit—charcoal gray, tailored, sharp enough to cut through the haze of self-loathing. I slide into it, pulling the jacket tight around my shoulders, feeling its weight like an exoskeleton. I smooth my long beard down, wiping away the messy, unkempt locks that she used to run her fingers through.

The man in the mirror isn’t me. This is someone else. Someone in control. Someone who has never been cheated on, who has never spent nights staring at the ceiling, wondering what he did wrong. The suit is armor, and for a moment, I feel invincible.

But the moment doesn’t last.

The illusion cracks as my own eyes betray me. I still see the boy underneath, the one who had begged her for answers, the one who had been too soft, too trusting. I yank off the tie, ripping buttons open as if they burn my skin. The suit crumples to the floor like a dead body. I’m not that man. Not yet.

I reach into the bag again.

The next outfit is the opposite of sleek—a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a shirt that smells faintly of whiskey. I throw it on, and apply a smear of kohl beneath my tired eyes. This is the rebel, the man who doesn’t care. The man who laughs at heartbreak, who has never spent nights staring at texts that would never come.

I exhale, flexing my jaw in the mirror. This version of me isn’t weak. I’m not the kind of man who gets walked all over, who sits silently as the person I love dismantles my worth piece by piece. I’m fire and recklessness. I’m the kind of man who would have walked away first.

But it’s a lie.

Beneath the leather, I still feel cold. The weight of her betrayal still sits in my chest like lead. No amount of posturing can smother it.

I curse under my breath and rip the jacket off, the metal zipper scraping my arm. I’m sweating now, my breath uneven. The stall feels smaller, suffocating. Another outfit. Another chance.

I pull out a hoodie—clean, unassuming, something a man with nothing to prove would wear. A man who is comfortable in his skin, who doesn’t feel the need to dress up pain in different disguises. I hesitate, fingers ghosting over the fabric. It feels too honest. Too much like the person I’m trying to bury.

No. I can’t wear that. Not yet.

With shaking hands, I go back to the bag, but there’s nothing left. No more costumes. No more facades. Just me, standing half-dressed in a filthy bathroom, a graveyard of discarded identities at my feet.

The realization is slow and sickening.

It doesn’t matter what I wear. The truth will still cling to me, seeping through every thread. I can suffocate myself in silk or drown in leather and smoke, but underneath, I will always be the same man—the one she destroyed. The one who wasn’t enough.

A knock at the door startles me. I turn to the mirror one last time, seeing all the different versions of myself flickering in my reflection like ghosts. But none of them are real.

I swallow hard, pick the hoodie off the floor, and pull it over my head.

Maybe I will never be able to change who I am. Maybe the best I can do is survive being me.

The thought festers in my head as I step outside the stall, feeling the sweat cool against my skin. The bass of the nightclub’s music thrums through the walls, a violent pulse against my ribcage. I push the door open and step into the dim, hazy hallway, faces blurring past me like strangers I’ve never met, like versions of myself I left behind.

I tell myself to walk with purpose, to act like I belong. The truth is, I don’t. I never have. I pass a mirror hanging by the hallway’s end and steal one last glance. The hoodie hangs loose, comfortable, but inside it, I feel hollow.

I step into the club’s main room, the air thick with sweat and desperation. Bodies move in rhythm, mouths curve into easy laughter, hands brush against each other like they’ve never known betrayal. I envy them. I want to be them. But I can’t.

A woman glances at me from across the bar, eyes skimming over my frame, curious but disinterested. I think about approaching, about playing a new role, about slipping into another version of myself for the night. But I know it would be a lie, just like the rest of it.

So I turn away.

I weave through the crowd, past the memories I’ve tried to escape, and push open the exit door. Cold air greets me, sharp and real, biting into my skin.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel it.

As I step onto the street, movement in a puddle catches my eye—a fractured reflection, shifting with the ripples. The face looking back is warped, unfamiliar, as though something beneath the surface is trying to claw its way out.

Then, movement. A shadow slipping between the flickering streetlights.

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. The sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoes through the empty street.

I turn sharply, scanning the sidewalk. Nothing. Just the wind, whistling between alleyways, carrying a sound that could almost be laughter.

My pulse quickens. I clutch the fabric of my hoodie as if it can shield me.

Then, a whisper—low, taunting, and unmistakably familiar. My name.

I whip around, heart hammering, but the street is empty. Yet, I know I’m not alone.

The night isn’t finished with me yet.

A shiver crawls down my spine as I take a hesitant step forward. The city is a graveyard of neon and lost souls, and I am just another specter drifting through its ruins. I hear the whisper again, closer this time, wrapping around me like a noose.

I start walking. Fast. My feet slap against the wet pavement, but no matter how far I go, I feel the weight of unseen eyes, the whisper of something just behind me. My breath turns shallow. The night swallows the sound.

I need to get away. I need to shed another skin, but there’s nothing left to discard. I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. There’s nowhere left to run. No outfit to change into. No mask to wear.

Then, from the darkness, a voice. Low. Mocking.

"You can’t hide from yourself."

And just like that, the night closes in.