The Glass Room

We fell into darkness. A moment ago, we were arguing in the cold, sterile motel room—now, we were here, suspended in nothingness. Then, suddenly, we landed on a hard, icy floor. Light seeped in from nowhere, illuminating our surroundings. We were inside a cube, each wall, the ceiling, and even the floor made entirely of mirrors.

Endless reflections stretched around us, multiplying our existence into infinity. But as I turned my head, the images started to shift. These weren’t just our reflections; they were memories—fragments of the life we had built together.

One wall played back laughter—the nights we stayed up talking until sunrise, the water fights in our first apartment, the road trips where we sang at the top of our lungs. Another wall shimmered with romance—our first kiss, dancing in the rain, our wedding day when we promised forever. The next wall showed the moments we had supported each other—holding hands in a hospital waiting room, whispering encouragement before big interviews, wiping away each other’s tears when life became too heavy.

Then, my eyes drifted to the last wall, and my stomach tightened. This one was different. It was the only one where the images flickered chaotically. It showed our fights—the cruel words, the slammed doors, the nights we turned away from each other in bed, drowning in silence.

I turned to Ryan, his jaw clenched as he stared at the floor.

"It’s not that wall," he murmured, his voice breaking.

I followed his gaze downward and felt my breath hitch. The reflections on the floor were the worst of them all. They weren’t fights; they were moments of complete isolation. Ryan sitting alone in his car, gripping the steering wheel like he was holding himself together. Me curled up on the couch, staring at a phone that never rang. The nights we lay in the same bed but felt miles apart.

"These are the moments that truly broke us," I whispered. "Not the fights—but the times we abandoned each other."

Ryan turned to me, his eyes glistening. "I never wanted to leave you alone, Kayla. I just... didn’t know how to help."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "When we lost the baby, you never cried. You never talked about it. I thought maybe you didn’t care. Maybe you blamed me."

His head snapped up. "Blamed you?" He took a step closer, his voice raw with pain. "Kayla, I was trying to be strong for you. But inside, I was falling apart. I lost our child too."

Tears spilled down my cheeks, and for the first time in months, I let myself feel everything. "I thought I was carrying it all alone. I didn’t know how to reach you."

Ryan reached out, hesitating for a second before cupping my face in his hands. "You never had to carry it alone. I was right here. I just didn’t know how to show it."

For the first time in what felt like forever, I let him hold me. And in that embrace, I felt the weight of our grief, our love, our regrets intertwine.

As we stood there, the mirrors began to crack. The floor beneath us splintered like ice thawing under the warmth of spring.

Ryan met my gaze. "Maybe we break this cycle together."

I nodded. "Together."

With one final step, we shattered the loneliness beneath our feet.

When we opened our eyes, we were back in the motel room. But something had changed.

This time, we weren’t facing away from each other.

This time, we held on.