by Trixia Marie C. Policarpio

Image by Karola G on Pexels (All photos and videos on Pexels can be downloaded and used for free).

One. Two. Three months…They say the post-breakup slump is supposed to last three months, enough time to hide out, cry it out, and then come back glowing—especially if you were the one left behind. 

But here I am, nine months in, still feeling like I’m barely holding it together. Every small thing just drains me. Every time I catch myself in the bathroom mirror, I can’t help but notice how awful I look. My hair’s limp, falling flat around my face like it’s given up. My forehead’s too wide, and my skin—god, my skin—looks dull, like it’s lost any glow it ever had. Pimples dot my chin and cheeks, not to mention the deep, purple bags under my eyes. I try not to look, but I can’t help it—the worst part is the way my body feels like it’s sagging. It’s like I’m torturing myself by not moving on, yet I can’t seem to stop. My head knows what I should do, what I shouldn’t feel, but my head and heart just aren’t in sync.

Meeting up and hanging out with people feels like a nightmare now. Just the thought drains me, and I dread those “Are you okay?” looks or the well-meaning bashing of my ex that feels hollow, as if scripted for the person who was obviously dumped. My only refuge, aside from my bedroom, is the library. The strict librarian with her zero-tolerance for noise—even a whisper gets a shush—creates the perfect silence. It’s the one place where I know I won’t have to fend off forced conversations. 

The library’s silence amplifies every whisper, and I catch snippets of gossip from the table nearby. One pair of students, just a table over, is deep in a lively debate, hushed but unmistakably audible in the otherwise silent room.

“Have you tried it yet?” The tall guy with broad shoulders, dark, perfectly styled hair and a stubble that looks like it’s been groomed professionally whispers with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I swear, it’s not like Tinder or Bumble—it’s different. It’s supposed to ‘transform’ you with each date.” He wiggles his fingers for emphasis, making his friend laugh. 

I roll my eyes but can’t help listening. Their voices fade in and out as they joke about profiles and failed dates. Finally, the librarian glares and taps her bell, startling everyone. 

The other, with downcast eyes, is nervously picking at her notebook, mumbling, “I’m not confident enough to date… I mean, look at me.” 

Great, I think, scowling at the guy. It’s always so easy for people like him. They have everything—looks, confidence—and don’t even have to try. They will never understand how it feels. 

* * * 

With no energy to do much else tonight in my home after classes, I find myself wrapped in my blanket, once again crumpling on my bed, glued to my phone and absorbed by the glow of the screen. I scroll endlessly through social media, reacting to memes, consuming repetitive posts, and watching reels that make me chuckle for a moment. Instagram takes up most of my time, showcasing curated lives—perfect smiles, trendy clothes, delicious food, and happy couples—that create an idealized version of existence. It’s a world where everyone posts their best selves, fueling the “sana all” mindset. 

I have been trying to control the urge to view my ex’s account. I muted and restricted him, then finally unfollowed. I manage to resist the temptation to check how he’s been doing for the past few months, but sometimes, I give in. Today’s one of those days. I type his name in the search box and his profile shows up quickly. My face freezes and my thumb numb upon seeing his picture wearing a silver chain necklace and a black long-sleeved shirt, one hand resting on his head, showing off his brand new buzz cut.

He’s been active lately, with almost thirty new posts. They’re pictures of his trips, parties, Pinterest-inspired outfits, and…girls. Some seem like friends, but one or two appear a bit closer than the rest. Girl instinct. I can’t stop myself from digging deeper—clicking profiles, viewing likes and comments, zooming in on photos. These girls around him look like the results of expensive facials, luxurious skincare routines, sweet vanilla perfumes, gym, diet pills, and weekly salon visits. They’re like carbon copies of Instagram celebrities—flawless, curvy, with glossy hair and scents that linger like an entire Bath and Body Works store. They’re the ones with the privilege to carpe diem life.

Spending so long looking at those girls’ pictures really gets to me. I brush my fingers over my face, feeling the rough bumps and scars, and with a sigh, toss my blanket off. I shuffle to the mirror, guiding myself with my phone’s glow until I flick on the lamp beside it. The light hits every red spot on my cheeks, the dark shadows under my eyes. I let my greasy, seaweed-like hair tumble down from my messy bun, and as it settles on my shoulders, I pull it forward. God, what a fucking disaster. My stomach churns, disgust creeping up my throat. Without thinking, I slam my finger down on the “block” button on his account, over and over, as if erasing him will erase the way I feel about myself.  

I lean in, examining my eyelashes—short, thin, practically nonexistent. Nothing like those lush, curled lashes that seem to define everyone else’s eyes. I try brushing them up with my finger, but it obviously doesn’t help.  I turn slightly to trace my nose and jawline, noting how my nose isn’t quite as sharp, my jawline almost non-existent. My mind drifts to that viral reel about gua sha, thinking how badly I need one and I feel this tug of frustration. I can feel the weight of my insecurities pressing down on me, and the impulse to escape into retail therapy grows stronger. I open the Lazada app, planning a shopping spree filled with beauty products that will transform my appearance, knowing full well it’ll eat away at my monthly allowance.

Just as the app begins to load, a flash catches my eye—a bright, colorful ad appears on the screen, drawing my attention away from my intended purchases. A vibrant video bursts to life with upbeat music, showcasing couples laughing, exploring parks, sipping coffee, and playing games. The screen flips through before-and-after shots of individuals glowing up—improving their appearances with confidence. Heartwarming testimonials follow, with snippets of the app’s feedback feature showing how each date leads to self-growth. It promises romance, but more than that, it’s about becoming the best version of yourself.

ARE YOU TIRED OF DATING APPS THAT LEAVE YOU FEELING INSECURE AND UNFULFILLED?

JOIN EVOLVE—THE APP DESIGNED FOR REAL LOVE OR SELF-IMPROVEMENT. 

HERE, EACH DATE OFFERS VALUABLE FEEDBACK TO HELP YOU EVOLVE AND BUILD A BETTER VERSION OF YOURSELF. 

DATE WITH A PURPOSE. DOWNLOAD NOW! 

This feels new, I think, as excitement flickers in my chest, but my mind is still tangled in the remnants of my past. A familiar sense of hesitation creeps in, like a cold breeze against my skin. My heart races at the thought of opening myself up again—exposing my vulnerabilities, my flaws, and the memory of my past heartbreak. My finger hovers over the close button, and just as I’m about to press it, the ad blasts a trumpet celebratory sound, and a message pops up on the screen. The bright colors and playful graphics pull me in, making it impossible to look away.

THIS IS AN EXCLUSIVE ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME OFFER. YOUR DATING EXPERIENCE WILL TRANSFORM YOU. YOU KNOW YOU NEED IT! 

A 10-second countdown appears above the Download button alongside the message.

10…9…8…

An exclusive offer for a dating app? Is that even a thing? I consider checking this in the App Store or Google, but I hesitate. If I switch apps, I risk missing the ad.

7…6…5…

For the past few months, I’ve been bombarded with the idea of diving into my “hoe phase” as a distraction, a way to shake off the lingering weight of my last relationship. Hook-up culture seems so normalized now; no strings attached, just acknowledging that people have needs. But it’s not about love; it’s merely a quick fling with no meaningful effect and bringing only ephemeral satisfaction. Sometimes, not even.  

I’m not into that. I want to really date. Maybe this is it; it’s time to take the plunge back into dating.

4…3…

But, wait… what if no one likes me? I mean, I’m definitely not at my best right now. I pause to think, and suddenly, my mind circles on the “transformation.” It says the dates won’t go to waste. How is that supposed to help me transform? I bite my nails, and as my hands tighten into fists, I can feel my palms sweating.

2…

Fuck it. I quickly hit the download button just in time to beat the countdown. 

Once the download finishes, the app starts explaining how it works. Unlike other dating apps where I choose and swipe, my dates are randomly assigned. The only preference I get to specify is my location, sex, and ideal age range for a partner. My account’s home page features a female body-shaped progress bar that fills up with each completed date, but I’m not sure what that’s for. I feel disgusted with myself as I attempt to upload old pictures or even recent ones filtered to blur my skin and make it look flawless. However, the app insists on unfiltered, unedited photos—just my natural smile, with no makeup or cover-ups allowed.

Once I’ve filled out all the necessary details, the app immediately displays a profile of a guy named Jason, who’s my age. His picture reveals little else about him or his personality, just the basics. He has dark, slightly wavy hair that compliments his sun-kissed skin. He smiles widely, revealing crooked teeth that seem a bit large for his rounded face. I wouldn’t say he’s the type I’d crush on, but he’s not unattractive—just average. The app also includes the date and location for our meeting, which is smartly chosen to be convenient for both of us. Mine is set for this Sunday at 4 PM. Great, just two days away.

* * * 

I step into the café in Tomas Morato, my heart racing as I scan the room for Jason. The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the chatter of patrons. The space is cozy, filled with mismatched wooden tables and soft, cushioned chairs. The walls are adorned with local art, vibrant splashes of color against the exposed brick. A chalkboard menu hangs above the counter, boasting an array of artisanal coffee blends and pastries that make my mouth water.

I’m wearing a fitted olive green top that complements my skin tone, paired with high-waisted jeans that feel comfortable yet slightly snug. My hair is tied in a low ponytail, and I’ve put on a heavy layer of makeup, trying to conceal the blemishes that still peek through. I’m not entirely confident that I look my best, but I hope the effort shows.

 I spot him at a corner table, his dark, slightly wavy hair catching the light. He waves at me, flashing a wide grin that reveals his crooked teeth just like in the photo. As I approach Jason, I feel my stomach flutter nervously. 

“Hey, Maine! You found the place okay?” he asks, his enthusiasm contagious.

“Yeah, it’s cute here!” I respond, forcing myself to focus on his friendly demeanor rather than my self-consciousness.

He gestures toward the pastries. “I’ve heard their chocolate croissant is a game changer. Want to share one?”

“Sure!” I nod, feeling a bit more at ease as he orders for us.

While we wait for our treats, he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “So, do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?”

I can’t help but laugh, enjoying the lighthearted banter. “That’s a classic line,” I reply, rolling my eyes playfully.

“Yeah, but it’s effective,” he grins, unfazed by his teeth. “I didn’t always have this smile, you know. I used to have braces as a kid. I hated going to the dentist, though—sitting in that chair, all awkward and terrified.”

“Same,” I chuckle, my fingers unconsciously brushing against my own teeth. “I have some dental horror stories, too.”

He nods, his face animated. “I used to think my teeth were going to look like a rollercoaster forever. But I didn’t care much about my smile back then. I was more worried about my nose and how wide my forehead looked.”

“I think your smile is charming,” I say, hoping to ease his insecurities, even as I feel the nagging distraction of his crooked teeth.

As we dive deeper into conversation, Jason shares stories about his childhood, each one drawing me in with his easy-going nature. He talks about playing basketball with his friends and how he always felt self-conscious about his height. “I may not be the tallest, but I make up for it in personality,” he says with a wink.

“Well, what about you? What do you think is your asset?” he asks, sounding serious, before adding with a laugh, “I sounded like a beauty pageant judge for a moment there!”

I let out a nervous laugh, trying to think of a solid answer. “That’s… that’s a harder question than asking what I’d want to change about myself.”

“Really? I see a few blemishes on your face, but those aren’t a big deal. You still look pretty,” he says with a smile, making me blush for a moment. For how I really look now, I wouldn’t take it to be offensive. If anything, that’s actually a compliment. I can’t tell if he’s just flirting, being nice, or maybe even lying to me, but it feels good to hear a compliment after so long.

Jason leans in with a curious smile. “Alright, so what’s your ideal guy like?” Leaning in with a grin, “Personality, looks, the whole package.”

I laugh, feeling the sudden pressure to come up with a meaningful answer. “The whole package? Well, personality-wise, someone kind and thoughtful. Funny, too. Looks… I mean, I don’t have a specific type, but I do appreciate someone who takes care of himself. But honestly, it’s about the vibe, you know?”

“Hmm, so looks don’t really matter to you?” Jason teases, his curiosity genuine.

I hesitate, considering my words. “I think they matter at first. Like, there’s got to be some attraction. But that fades if there’s no real connection. Love, for me, is about feeling understood and safe.”

Jason nods. “Yeah, same here. I used to think looks were everything, but now… I’m realizing it’s less about appearances and more about finding someone who just gets you.”

I smile, feeling like we’re on the same wavelength. “Exactly. What’s the point of being with someone if you can’t have real conversations?”

Jason chuckles. “Wise words. Guess I’ll stop obsessing over my teeth now.” He says it with a grin, clearly poking fun at himself.

I try to laugh along, but a pang of guilt twists in my stomach. Here I am, nodding along to the idea that looks aren’t everything, but some part of me is still judging him by the exact features he’s self-conscious about. I want to see him for who he is beyond his crooked teeth and wide nose, to mean what I’m saying. But it’s hard to ignore my own shallow thoughts. Maybe I’m not as above appearances as I’d like to think.

The rest of the afternoon, we chat about our favorite movies, sharing laughter over silly plots and iconic lines. He opens up about his love for adventure, mentioning a recent hiking trip where he got lost for an hour. I laugh at his dramatic reenactment, but my mind drifts back to his crooked teeth. Still, I enjoy his sense of humor and how he makes me feel at ease.

As we finish our drinks, Jason leans forward, sincerity in his eyes. “I had a great time, Maine. Can we do this again? I promise I’ll wear my best smile.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” I reply, smiling back, but I know the truth behind it. 

* * * 

Back at my place, I can’t help but replay the moments with Jason in my head. He’s genuinely nice, and we had so much fun together, but I can’t shake the comparisons—my ideal guy, him, my ex. They’re polar opposites, each with their pros and cons, and it’s like I’m trapped in this loop of indecision. Normally, I’d text someone for advice, but tonight, I just sit with my thoughts, uncertainty swirling in my mind. 

Suddenly, my phone buzzes with a notification from Evolve, pulling me back to the present.

WE RECEIVED FEEDBACK FROM JASON!

NOW IT’S YOUR TURN. HOW WAS YOUR DATE? YOUR HONEST FEEDBACK WILL HELP HIM TRANSFORM. 

Following the prompt, I type out everything I liked and disliked about Jason, both personal and physical details—his crooked teeth, wide nose. It feels like journaling—a way of reflecting on the date and my thoughts. After I hit submit, a new question appears on the screen, catching me off guard.

THANKS FOR YOUR RESPONSE! 

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KEEP SEEING HIM? SELECTING YES CONTINUES YOUR RELATIONSHIP, BUT CEASES YOUR TRANSFORMATION. 

I freeze, my fingers numb against my phone as I stare at the screen. The app feels like it’s pushing me to make a decision—a split-second ultimatum. My mind flits back and forth between thoughts of Jason and that strange promise of “transformation.” What does it even mean? My curiosity grows until it’s almost irresistible. I take a breath, steadying myself, and then—my thumb hovers over the screen. Without fully thinking it through, I press No. 

The app notifies me, “You missed a potential match!” signaling that Jason had answered yes, wanting to keep seeing me. My chest tightens. Was this a missed chance? I panic, tapping around, hoping to undo my answer. Instead, a female-shaped load bar fills slowly on the screen. I hold my breath, waiting, but after a minute… nothing. I laugh at myself, realizing how foolish I’ve been—maybe this app is playing with me. With a sigh, I lock my phone, toss it aside, and try to drift into sleep.

I wake up to my phone vibrating with a notification: the transformation was successful. But remembering how uneventful last night was, I brush it off and go through my usual bathroom routine—splashing water on my face, brushing my teeth, and slipping into my hoodie. When I glance in the mirror, I do a double take. 

All my pimples, scars, and dark circles are gone—just like that! My skin looks like porcelain. I slap myself lightly and pinch my arm to make sure I’m not dreaming, because who experiences this kind of transformation in an instant—Wait, transformation? 

The thought sends a jolt through me, making me rush back to my bed. Grabbing my phone, I see a new guy’s profile waiting, complete with a time and place for a date.  I find myself smiling unknowingly. 

How is any of this even possible? But for the first time in forever, I have a reflection I actually like. I don’t know what kind of sorcery or tech wizardry this is—maybe it’s AI, maybe something else. Tech’s gone wild lately anyway. People keep saying AI should exist to help humans. Maybe this is that. Evolve works, and right now, that’s all that matters.

* * * 

Weeks pass, and the parade of dates continues. Each man offering up their quirks, insecurities, and hopes for validation—height, big eyes, wide foreheads, and skin tones that vary from chocolate brown to porcelain white. Some of them are genuinely kind, but none of them move me enough to even think about deleting the app. Others? Boring. Each time, I look at them and can’t help but feel pity, watching their desperate attempts to impress me.

They’re like lost souls seeking something, but I stand there, taller, colder, unbothered. They gawk at me, clearly in awe of the new version of me. This is what it feels like, I think. To be admired without any effort, to be the object of desire, yet never have to give anything in return. I no longer need to be vulnerable to win their affection. Now, I stand in my beauty, my power. I can see it in their eyes—the silent glorification of me. I’m everything they could never be, and that knowledge feels sweet, satisfying.

They come, trying to charm me with their offerings, but it’s all the same; their awkward compliments, their nervous laughter. Gifts? Please. The only gift they offer is the possibility of heartbreak, but I’m no longer in the position to be broken. I’ve had my fill of that, and it’s not coming back. Not with this new me.

What truly captivates me now is the transformation; my reflection is becoming a masterpiece. I have curvier hips, a fuller backside, and my hair flows like silk—all without any effort beyond tapping my phone. Each date feels secondary to the satisfaction of watching my progress bar climb. I can’t help but feel a rush of conceit every time I glance in the mirror, the way my appearance evolves is far more enticing than any of these men. My transformation has made me realize that I don’t need them. I’m stronger, prettier, and more confident, and I relish in the thought that I can keep upgrading myself. 

The progress bar steadily fills, each percentage ticking up, igniting my anticipation. I can almost taste the thrill of the full transformation. Just a little more–I stare at my phone on the table, anxiously tapping my fingers. “Come on,” I mutter, my knees bouncing towards the table. My heart races with anticipation as the screen shows 96%  loading.

“Please, come on,” I whisper again, biting my nails and rubbing my palms together until they feel raw. “Don’t freeze on me now.” 

97%…98%…

The progress bar hangs for a second before skipping to 98 and then rushing to 100. A green light flashes, and “UPGRADE COMPLETE” fills the screen.

“Yes!” I squeal. The app redirects me to my profile, where the same photos stare back—me in the same outfits, same poses, taken in the same places: the mall, my bedroom, a fancy restaurant in Makati, and a beach in Subic that I’ve only visited once. But now, everything feels different. I look polished— like I belong in those luxurious settings. 

YOU’VE UNLOCKED THE PERFECT VERSION OF YOURSELF. GET READY—SINGLE MEN WILL BE RACING TO YOUR DOOR!

  The app congratulates me. I brace myself, waiting, heartbeat pounding against my chest. I clench my fists and my breathing gets faster and faster. 

Then it begins—my face is pinched and tugged, as if someone is molding me like clay. I gasp, feeling my jaw and cheekbones reshape under the invisible force, each press igniting a jolt of pain. My stomach cramps, sharp and twisting, like it’s being wrung dry, and my hands go numb, frozen, beyond my control. I try to open my mouth, to scream, to breathe, but my lips feel locked in place. A fierce pull tightens across my scalp, yanking at my hair so hard my eyes narrow, my vision blurs. Every part of me is under siege, first one by one, then all at once, my body alive with burning, stretching, reshaping agony.

I whimper, tears spilling down my cheeks as I bite down to stop from screaming. Then, as suddenly as it started, the pain fades, vanishing as if nothing happened. I’m left gasping, clutching my chest, struggling to catch my breath.

When I finally open my eyes, I’m… different. 

My fingers are long and elegant, nails smooth and pink. My arms are slender and pale, and my lap looks toned, even as I sit here, examining each transformation. I let out a small, hollow laugh, studying the slender white arms, the dainty lap, and the sharp lines of my knees. Everything flawless, everything pristine.

I jump up and rush to the mirror in the corner of my room. Slowly, I touch my face, running my fingers over the smooth, poreless skin. No pimples, no marks—just pure, glossy porcelain. I can’t even pinch my skin; it feels firm, like it’s been sculpted. I turn to the side, staring at my exaggerated curves. My bottom looks stuffed with pillows, but it’s as stiff as my chest, which is now large. I grab at my waist, feeling my flat, toned stomach. I twist to check from all angles— like a runway model straight off a billboard.

Yet, something feels wrong. Heavy yet hollow, as if I’m trapped in a body that isn’t mine, encased in some sort of shell. My movements feel rigid, like I’m cramped in this new skin. 

“Whoa…Wait…This is so unreal,” I whisper, eyes wide as I stare at my reflection.

Holding up my phone, I compare my screen image to the girl in the mirror. Look at that jawline, I think, tracing the sharp edges with my fingers. It’s perfect from every angle. My pointed nose, high cheekbones, and smooth forehead. I try to change my facial expressions—frowning, scrunching my nose, puffing my cheeks full of air—but my reflection remains unchanged. It’s like a filter has been permanently applied—not just to my face, but to my entire body. 

I take another step back from the mirror, my hands trembling, fingers searching frantically over my face, my arms—anywhere I might feel something real. But each touch confirms that my skin is smooth, hard, and cold, like polished marble. A wave of panic rises, my breaths coming too fast, chest tight as if bound in a vise. “No,” I whisper, voice shaking as my eyes dart over my reflection. My heart pounds wildly, yet I don’t see any of it—no flushed cheeks, no beads of sweat, nothing to reveal my fear. My skin remains unbothered by my spiraling panic. 

I clutch my chest, hoping for some sign of warmth. But there’s only this frigid perfection. My fingers grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white as I fight to steady myself, but every glance at the mirror only tightens the knot of dread twisting inside me. I want to scream, to shatter the image staring back at me, yet I can’t look away. 

“What have I done?” The question falls from my lips, barely a whisper. I slam my finger against the screen again, again, again, but nothing. The app just hangs there, stuck on my upgraded picture. My thumb presses frantically, but there’s no button to push, no notifications, nothing. I search online for Evolve—nothing. It’s like the app never existed. Panic spikes in my chest, my phone overheating in my grip as I refresh over and over, but it stays frozen. No, please. Please. Please work. Damn it, please work, but the app won’t budge. 

Then the screen flashes a loading circle, and a message pops up: 

YOU HAVE ACHIEVED THE BEST VERSION OF YOURSELF!

 I turn to the mirror, my reflection just grins. 

About the Author. Trixia Marie C. Policarpio is a BA Creative Writing undergraduate at the University of the Philippines Diliman. She delves into both fiction and non-fiction, crafting stories and essays that navigate the spectrum of human experience. She explores various genres, including realist narratives and horror, blending imaginative storytelling with thought-provoking insights as reflections of her curiosity in the world. She draws inspiration from everyday life, human relationships and desire, and the complexities of emotion. “Reverse Frankenstein” is her first published story.