I was at work one day when she sent me a photo of a clown.
No message, just the image.
I stared at it for a moment, confused, thinking maybe it was some kind of joke. Then the next text came through.
“Looks like you.”
It wasn’t meant to be funny.
She was always saying bad things about how I dressed. Too bright, too mismatched, too much. If I wore something I liked, she’d sigh, shake her head, make a comment. “Seriously? You’re going out in that?” If I tried something different, she’d smirk. “Well, that’s a choice.”
But the clown… that one stuck.
I couldn’t forget it.
For the rest of the day, I kept thinking about it. Looking down at my clothes, wondering if other people thought the same.
Maybe they did.
Maybe I really did look ridiculous.
It made me feel bad, like I wasn’t good enough. Like no matter what I did, I’d always be the joke.