She wakes every morning at 7 AM, tired and irritable, not willing to greet the day. She forces herself out of her bed, turns on the light, and walks to the dresser where her white contact case sits. She twists open the lids to the two compartments and puts the emerald green contacts in her eyes. She takes a quick look at herself, and hates what she sees. Her hair is a mess, eyeliner is smudged under her eyes from the night before, and she looks like she didn’t get enough sleep the night prior. She quickly turns on her hair straightner and wipes the eye liner off her face. She opens the third drawer of her maple dresser and pulls out a pair of jeans and leisurely puts them on, then opens the second drawer to find a suitable shirt to wear with them. She glances at the alarm clock on the window sill. It reads 7:08. Only 12 more minutes left to get ready and leave for school, and she doesn’t have a sufficient amount time. She applies make-up to her face in attempt to cover up her imperfections and bring out her best features. She glances up at the words scribbled on my surface in pink lipstick. “I am pretty”. She says it out loud to herself every morning, but never believes it. She knows that prettier girls exist out in the world, and she’s just average, and will never be anything more. She snaps back to reality and finishes putting on her makeup. Another quick glance at the clock; it reads 7:15. She curses to herself under her breath and tries to hurridly straighten what she can of her hair. It’s no use. Her hair just doesn’t want to oblige. She grabs her hair brush and pulls her hair into a pony tail on top of her head and flicks off her straightner. She opens the top drawer of her worn dresser, and reaches for two socks, not concerned if they match. “Sabrina, we’re going to be late!” her step-mother calls from downstairs. “I’m on my way down!” she replies back. Quickly, she pulls on her shoes with bright neon laces, not bothering to tie them, and stands. She stares intently into me, seeing her reflection stare back at her. She makes a face of disgust and walks toward the door to depart, but before she does, I hear her say “I am pretty” one more time. I just wish she could see what I see every time she looks into me. I see this girl who is beautiful in every way she can possibly be; a girl who is confident, and who knows what she wants in the world and won’t stop for anyone or anything that gets in her way. Sure, she has her moments where she has her fun by singing into her hair brush to the songs on the radio, and the moments where everything seems to be going wrong and she lies in bed crying, but she is pretty. Any other girl she’s ever had spend the night could never compare to her. She’s the face I see every day, whether the day was good or bad. I’m always happy to see her beautiful face staring through me after a long day of silence and bareness alone, even though she’s not always pleased to see me. Unlike most of her friends, I never lie to her. I show her who she actually is; perfections and flaws. It’s hard for her to understand, and she sometimes wishes I could lie to her to make her feel better. But I refuse. If I can’t show her who she really is and how beautiful she really is, there’s no way anyone else can. I know she’ll see her true self and her true beauty some day.