When I was younger, I convinced myself that I would never have a Mate. Maybe it was for dumb reasons like, my face is full of pimples, or my legs are too fat, or my hair is dry and not as soft and shiny as hers. In my young mind, I believed no guy would want me because at the time I didn't possess such traits.

It is a stupid thing to believe—that I am too ugly for a Mate—but the thought grasped onto me for years. The thought brought me to tears while I sat in my bathtub, only in the tub so no one could hear me. All in all, I was depressed.

Me, a sixteen-year-old werewolf at the time, was depressed because of my physical appearance. I mean, werewolves are supposed to be beautiful right? Flawless skin, vibrant hair, lushes lips, soothing voice, perfect body, a list of traits that surrounded me, yet traits I didn't have. All of the girls my age were beautiful, and I was the ugly duckling.

"Don't worry, you'll grow into your ears," my mother would tell me, pushing my dull, knotted brown hair over them.

"Don't worry, I'm sure your breasts will come, you're just a late bloomer," she'd say.

"Your feet aren't too small."

"Your face will clear up."

"Having brown eyes is lovely, people want brown eyes like yours, Rae."

I'd stare up at her and think about all the lies she's told me. Will I really grow into my ears? No. They'll always be a little too big, and they still are three years later.