The story of the Cracked mirror. pt. 1

The ballroom hummed with the murmur of masked whispers, silk gliding on polished floors, and a tune that waltzed with the pulse in your veins. I see you there, perched before the mirror like a queen on the edge of coronation. Your eyes flicker with something between confidence and dread as you smooth foundation across your cheeks, an act rehearsed so many times it feels sacred. A smirk curves your lips as you whisper, “Just perfect enough.” Each brushstroke is armor, mascara a battle cry to be unforgettable. Yet, the cracks in the mirror split your reflection — one smile, one sulk, one face that doesn’t seem to care at all.

“Tonight, they’ll want me,” you say, voice barely a breath.

But we both know that isn’t true, don’t we?

The music calls, seductive and unwavering. You answer, leaving the safety of the glass kingdom behind. The ballroom embraces you with its tapestry of masked faces — each one unique, each one hiding something. The first man approaches, his mask gilded in gold, shimmering with false promises. He twirls you into the heart of the dance, whispering compliments that slither over your skin, warm and fleeting. For a heartbeat, you think this could be enough, that maybe his flattery could fill the spaces between your ribs. But as the music lulls, he releases your hand, his lips brushing your knuckles in a shallow bow. He vanishes into the crowd, leaving only a phantom warmth.

Back at the mirror, your gaze searches for a glow, a trace of worth left by his touch. The cracks have deepened, splintering your reflection into jagged fragments. Your fingers trail along the fractures, cold and unyielding. I whisper, “You know he didn’t see you, right? He saw what he wanted.”

You ignore me. That voice again, you think. You lean forward, lipstick in hand, thickening the color until it screams red, as if that could anchor someone long enough to stay.

And you return.

This time, the silver-masked man finds you. His eyes reflect you perfectly at first — flattering, almost mesmerizing — but then they twist, bending your image just enough to make you question everything. He holds you like a prize, something to possess and discard. You push yourself into the dance, hoping the frantic motion might tether him to you. But as the song wanes, so does he. His fingers slip away, and he drifts into the blur of faces, leaving you with nothing but a chill.

Back at the mirror, you brace yourself. The cracks deepen, veins of emptiness etching their way into every expression you own. You touch them, feeling as if they’ve cut into your very soul. “I’m still beautiful, right?” The silence is suffocating; no answer comes because you won’t let it.

The music swells, louder, more demanding. You smear on another layer of foundation, eyes burning as you try to cover the fatigue beneath. You step back into the dance, feet moving with the desperation of a marathoner chasing a mirage.

Then, the black mask finds you. Its edges are sharp, cutting against your skin as he pulls you close. His grip is suffocating, possessive — this time, it feels like being seen. “At least he sees me,” you whisper inside your mind. But as the final note fades, so does the illusion. His hand drops, and he leaves without a backward glance.

Back in front of the mirror, the silence echoes. The cracks spread, until the girl staring back at you looks like she’s holding herself together with little more than willpower. I murmur, “He never wanted you — just control.” But you won’t hear it. You wipe your face, smudge after smudge, and whisper, “Next time will be different.”

You dance. And dance. Until the masks blur, until the world becomes a spin of color and hands that touch but never hold. Their faces become meaningless, their words just echoes that bounce off your guarded heart. And still, you end up back at the mirror.

But tonight, from the shadows of the room, it steps forward. The cracked mirror mask. Its jagged edges shimmer under the dim light, mimicking the fractures you’ve ignored. It moves awkwardly, like it’s trying to mimic life. You reach out, fingers brushing the cold surface. Just one more dance, you think. Just one more chance to feel whole.

And for a moment, your reflection stares back at you through the mask’s cracks. Almost familiar. Almost. But you shake your head. “It’s not me,” you insist, voice breaking. “It can’t be.”

You dance, clinging to the mask, willing it to give you what no one else could. But it offers nothing — no warmth, no words, just silence. A silence that screams louder than the music ever could.

And that’s when it happens. The breaking point. You stumble back to the mirror, fury and exhaustion blending into something sharp and uncontrollable. “Why won’t you ever be enough?” The reflection shatters as you strike it, pieces raining down like stars falling from a forsaken sky. It’s not enough — not enough to make you whole or erase the echoes of failure.

Amidst the shards, you stand, makeup smeared like a forgotten masterpiece. The broken pieces glimmer around you, but they show nothing of substance. Nothing real.

You wipe your face clean, the skin underneath raw and bare. “Maybe tomorrow,” you whisper. The silence returns, heavy and familiar. I’m still here, that voice, waiting for you to listen. The answer is within reach, but you’re not ready to hear it.

Not tonight.