It’s because of the silence he leaves behind.
Because no one’s ever carved me open so quietly before.
Because no one’s ever made me feel like my thoughts weren’t my own without ever touching me.
And now… I don’t know where I end and he begins.
The boundaries feel smudged, like fingerprints on glass that won’t wipe away no matter how hard I scrub.
Because I can’t stop thinking about what else he’s taken.
And worse — what I’d let him take next.
Not because I’m weak.
But because I’m wired for this.
Because I grew up surviving people like him, and now that I’ve seen one who doesn’t lie about what he is… I don’t know how to go back to pretending I want anything else.
I close the mirror box.
The sound is soft. Final.
Stand.
My legs move before I decide to let them.
Walk to the kitchen.
The floor creaks beneath my weight like it’s remembering other footsteps.
Turn on the sink.
And rinse the mirror under cold water like I’m baptising it. Like I’m baptising myself.
The water beads and runs, but nothing lifts. Nothing loosens.
But nothing comes clean.
Not in this house.
Not in this story.
And definitely not in this body.
Because I still haven’t told anyone.
Because part of me doesn’t want to.
Because telling someone would mean dragging this into the light.
And I’m starting to wonder if the dark is where I belong now.
I leave the mirror on the windowsill like it belongs there.
Like it always has.
As if this apartment was always waiting for it to return.
