I eye him, contemplating, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. I am suddenly aware of the splattering of freckles across my arms and chest, feeling shy about them. Seth doesn't have a single freckle from what I've seen, and if he does they're camouflaged by his golden skin. What do I have to be shy about? There is no reason to be shy just because my melanin clusters rather than disperses evenly.
But something about my freckles feels infantilizing. Freckles are neither a testament of maturity or immaturity but they might as well be in this moment. I am regressing into my child-self, wondering where it all went wrong—wondering where all my insecurities took root and sprouted from. There is a garden of insecurities planted somewhere on my brain and right now it is getting plenty of the att
