The Mirror

There was a mirror in her room, tall and oval, carved with the kind of intricate woodwork that suggested it had belonged to someone important—perhaps a duchess, or a liar. It stood near the window, where light could hit it just right, offering her a glimpse of herself every morning and every night. And every morning and every night, she asked it the same question—not with words, but with eyes: Who am I today?

Some days, the mirror was generous.

It showed her brilliance. A woman with fire behind her eyes, with plans too big for the walls of her small apartment. Her reflection would smile before she even did, as if already knowing the day would belong to her. She’d watch herself pace the room, sharp and certain, each movement performed for an invisible audience who waited eagerly for her next dazzling act.

On those days, the mirror seemed to swell with her presence. It reflected someone worthy—beautiful not because of symmetry or polish, but because of possibility. She would study her posture, the way her hands moved when she spoke, the angles of her face when the sun hit it just so, and think: Yes, this is me. I am someone.

But the mirror had another face.

Without warning, it would turn cold. Unlit. Unforgiving. Her reflection would appear too small for the frame, as if the woman inside were shrinking under a pressure no one else could see. The light from the window wouldn’t fall the same way. Her skin looked dull. Her eyes, vacant. She would stand there, waiting for her reflection to animate itself—waiting for that flicker of presence to return.

It never did. Not until she earned it back.

She began to think of the mirror not as an object, but as a judge. One that answered only to the court of public opinion. On the days she received compliments, admiration, glances lingering longer than necessary—on those days, the mirror smiled. It rewarded her. On the days she was forgotten, overlooked, or dismissed, the mirror punished her with silence.

She learned to perform for it.

Not just in front of the glass, but out in the world. Every action became a strategy: how to be remembered, how to be praised, how to be wanted. She wore the right mask for the right crowd, became a collector of reactions, a thief of attention. And in private, she would return to the mirror like a child seeking approval from a withholding parent.

Sometimes, she wondered if there was anything behind the reflection at all.

Was the woman she saw real—or only a ghost built from the admiration of others? Without the mirror, who would she be? Could she exist without being seen?

One night, unable to sleep, she draped a cloth over it. The absence of its gaze filled the room like fog. She sat in silence, trembling slightly, as though someone had turned off the only light she knew how to walk by.

And then she whispered—not to the mirror, but to herself:
"I want to exist even when no one sees me."

The mirror didn’t answer. But in its silence, something shifted.

The next morning, she stood before it again, uncovered, unstyled, unready. And for the first time, she did not ask it who she was.

She told it.