I can try.
I can try to think the way she does.
Find out the reasons behind all her decisions and maybe, do the same. Tick the boxes she would tick and laugh at the kind of jokes she will find funny. Take a walk in her pretty Haji Lane bought sandals. Fill her shoes.
I can try to dress the way she does.
Put on a tank top when it is hot even though I am insecure about my own arms. Swap my leggings for skirts all cut the same way. Ankle socks and never knee high ones. Look the part.
I can try to talk the way she does.
Softer and quieter. Always hinting but never really direct. Express but in moderation. In small and proper doses of emotions. Never too much. Never too little. Sound convincing.
But I will never be her.
I can try to hold your hand the way she does, but my hand will always be my hand. It cannot change its skin to be as smooth as hers or as fair as hers or as gentle as hers. My hand will always be sweaty and small with random small paper cuts here and there. I can try to listen to you the way she does, but my ears are used to picking up what I am used to. Sensitive to your words, your pauses, your tone of voice and your delivery. And not just myself. I can try to look at you the way she does, but what I see will always belong to me. It will always be stained with my personal bias and values and love.
Because I can try.
But I will never be.
And cannot be.
Because I will always be me.