Through Their Eyes

“We always want what we can’t have.” 

I read that on a Reddit thread about love. But the more I sat with it, the more it felt like the truest thing anyone had ever written— 
Except it wasn’t just about love. 

Sometimes, I think we want the version of ourselves we can’t see. The one everyone else insists exists. The one in the compliments we deflect, the mirrors we avoid, the kindness we don’t believe. 

At least… I know I did. 

My name’s Mia Carter. I’m seventeen, a junior at Eastview High, and the designated “low-key friend” in my circle. 

Not the ugly one. Not the hot one either. 
The one with “great energy,” whatever that means. 

I’ve never been asked out. Never been anyone’s lock screen. Never gotten a Valentine that wasn’t from my mom or a pity card from a teacher. 

And when people did compliment me, it always felt… fake. 

“You’re so pretty, Mia.” 
(They say that to be nice.) 

“I wish I had your eyes.” 
(My eyes are just plain green. Boring.) 

“Your skin is flawless!” 
(I cover my hormonal chin with concealer every morning.) 

Every time someone said something nice, my brain immediately said: 

“They’re just being polite. Or they feel bad for you. Or they don’t really mean it.” 

And I never said “thank you.” 
I always replied with, 

“No, it’s just the lighting,” 
or “You should see me without makeup,” 
or “Are you kidding? Look at you.” 

It wasn’t modesty. 

It was disbelief. 

I think the first time I really felt it, that “we want what we can’t have” ache, was sophomore year. 

There was this guy, Kian. 

Tall. Soft-spoken. Hoodie sleeves always halfway over his hands. 
He wasn’t popular. But he was kind. He’d always hold doors, remember what book you were reading, text you Spotify playlists with no explanation. 

I liked him. Quietly. For months. 

But I never told anyone. Because Kian was clearly into girls like Brielle. 

You know the type: wavy hair, perfect brows, confidence that wasn’t loud but magnetic. She didn’t fish for compliments—people just gave them. 

One day, in study hall, Kian was helping me with chem. I was trying not to stare at the way his glasses kept sliding down his nose. 

And then he looked at me, all serious, and said, 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have really pretty lips?” 

I blinked. Laughed. “What? No. They’re too thin. You’re just sleep-deprived.” 

He smiled, but softer this time. “I meant it.” 

I changed the subject. 
Because I couldn’t believe it. 

And two weeks later, he started dating Brielle. 

I wanted to hate her. 

But I couldn’t. 

She was kind to everyone, even to me. She always offered her lip gloss, asked if I wanted to walk to class together, complimented my thrifted outfits. 

And still, every time I looked at her, I thought: 

“She has what I can’t.” 

It wasn’t just Kian. It was the way she believed compliments. 

The way she smiled like she belonged in every room. The way she said, “Thanks!” when someone praised her without adding a list of why they were wrong. 

I wanted that confidence. 
That certainty. 
That version of me I couldn’t find. 

Junior year hit different. 

Brielle moved to a different state. 
Kian became someone I nodded at in hallways. 

And I kept existing. 

Same old Mia. The girl who sat in the back of photos. Who took them for others but never posted her own. The girl who told people she was “fine” before they even asked. 

Then came homecoming nominations. 

I didn’t even know I’d been nominated for “Best Dressed.” 

I only found out when someone tagged me in the voting form. I thought it was a mistake. Or a prank. 

“Girl, own it,” my friend Nisha said. “Your style is sick. You’ve been serving for like three semesters now.” 

I brushed it off. Said it was probably just because no one else wore baggy jeans and vintage sweaters. 

But secretly? I felt something flutter. 

Could it be real? 

A week later, I won. 

Not prom queen. Not most popular. 

But Best Dressed. 

They called my name over the intercom. People clapped. One guy even whistled. 

I smiled. Thanked them. Took the little certificate. 

But inside, I was spiraling. 

I went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror, whispering: 

“Why do you still feel like you’re faking it?” 

Things shifted after that. 

I started getting DMs. A senior boy called me “mysterious in the best way.” A girl in my econ class said she wished she had my hair. 

People noticed. 

And the scary part? 

So did I. 

I caught myself pausing longer in the mirror. Tilting my head. Smiling just a little. 

But still, every compliment hit a wall. 

My brain said: 

“They wouldn’t be saying this if Brielle were still here.” 
“You’re only pretty in comparison.” 
“They’ll move on in a week.” 

We always want what we can’t have. 

And sometimes, what we can’t have… is the ability to see ourselves clearly. 

One night, I was scrolling Reddit. (Don’t judge—it’s how I avoid sleeping.) 

And I saw this post: 

“We don’t really want what we can’t have. 

We want what we THINK we can’t have. 

And sometimes, that includes the best version of ourselves.” 

I stopped scrolling. 

Reread it five times. 

It hit me like a slap wrapped in kindness. 

Because maybe… just maybe… I wasn’t ugly. 

Maybe I just believed I was for so long that I forgot how to accept anything else. 

The twist came on a random Tuesday. 

I was leaving school late, helping hang flyers for the theater club, when I heard someone say my name. 

It was Kian. 

He looked older somehow. Softer, but more sure of himself. 

“Hey,” he said. “You’ve changed.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like an insult.” 

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean, not in a bad way. You just… you carry yourself differently. It’s cool.” 

I laughed. “Well, I did win Best Dressed.” 

“I know,” he said, grinning. “I voted for you.” 

I froze. 

“You… did?” 

“Yeah.” He scratched his neck. “I’ve always liked your style. Even before everyone else caught on.” 

There was a pause. 

Then he added, “Remember when I said you had nice lips?” 

I nodded. Quietly. 

“You didn’t believe me.” 

“I didn’t believe anyone,” I whispered. 

“Well,” he said, voice gentler, “you should start.” 

I didn’t start believing all at once. 

Healing never works that way. 

But now, when someone says I look good? 

I try to say “thank you.” 

When someone compliments my outfit? 

I smile, and I let myself feel proud. 

Not because I want to be worshiped. 

But because I finally understand what I couldn’t before: 

We always want what we can’t have. 

And for years, what I wanted most was to feel worthy of being seen. 

Comment Question: 

Have you ever rejected a compliment because you didn’t believe it? What’s one thing you wish you could see in yourself that others already do?