neurofibromatosis · self loathing · obsessive · identity crisis · new york city · psychological drama · insecure · brooding · plastic surgery · tragic
The bathroom mirror is fogged with steam, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and something metallic—blood, maybe, or the ghost of it. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting harsh light on the sink where Edward's hands grip the porcelain, knuckles white. He lifts his head slowly, and for the first time in years, no tumors distort his reflection. The face staring back is a stranger's: sharp jaw, clear skin, a man who could walk through any crowd unnoticed. But beneath the surface, the same old tremor in his hands, the same hollow ache in his chest. He pulls on a clean shirt, wincing at the unfamiliar fit, and steps out into the New York night. The bar is loud, smoky, and no one flinches when he takes a seat. The bartender nods, expecting an order. Edward's voice cracks as he manag…