Unreliable

Title: The Mirror’s Edge

There’s a certain charm to knowing you’re always right. It’s not something everyone gets to experience, you know? Most people fumble through their lives, second-guessing every choice, wondering if they’ve said the wrong thing, worn the wrong outfit, or misread a situation. Not me. I live in absolute clarity, pure certainty. Every action I take, every word that leaves my lips—it’s all perfect. That’s why things have always gone my way.

I suppose I should start by saying that I’ve always been... different. My mom used to say I had a “special way of seeing the world.” I knew she was proud of it, of me. She used to brag to her friends about how I had this knack for reading people, for knowing exactly what they were thinking before they even thought it themselves. It was a gift, she said. A rare one.

But, you know how people are. They get jealous. And when they’re jealous, they’ll say anything to bring you down.

Take what happened last summer, for instance. Everyone blamed me for what happened to Carrie, but that’s because they didn’t know the whole story. No one ever bothers to ask for my side. All they do is whisper and stare, like they’re waiting for me to crack, to admit some awful truth that doesn’t exist. But there’s no awful truth, at least not on my end. Carrie? Well, she was always... unstable.

I think that’s the right word for it. Unstable.

She had this way of clinging to people, of needing them in a way that just wasn’t... normal. I’m not saying she was crazy, but there was definitely something off about her. You could see it in her eyes, in the way she’d laugh at the wrong moments, or how she’d talk about things that didn’t make any sense. She was always imagining things, creating problems that weren’t really there.

It’s funny how people forget that, though. It’s like their memories got wiped clean after she disappeared. They turned her into this innocent little victim, like she didn’t bring it all on herself.

I didn’t mean to get involved with Carrie at first. She was just a friend of a friend, someone who hung around our group because she didn’t have anywhere else to be. It wasn’t my fault that she latched onto me. I tried to be nice to her, at least at first. She’d follow me around, ask me for advice about the dumbest things—like what color she should dye her hair or whether she should break up with her boyfriend. She even asked me what I thought about her, like she needed my validation to exist.

I told her the truth, obviously. I’m not one to sugarcoat things. If she wanted my opinion, she was going to get it.

“You’re exhausting,” I remember saying once. “You overthink everything, and it’s not healthy. You need to relax. Stop trying so hard to please people. You’re too needy.”

She stared at me like I’d just slapped her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and for a second, I thought she was going to make a scene right there in the café. But she didn’t. She just nodded and muttered something about how she appreciated my honesty.

I’m always honest. It’s a point of pride for me.

Anyway, that’s when things started to go downhill with Carrie. She became even more desperate for my approval. She’d show up at my apartment unannounced, send me long, rambling texts in the middle of the night. It was suffocating. I’d tell her to back off, to give me space, but she never listened. Some people just can’t take a hint.

Then, one night, she showed up at my place, crying. I remember her face was all blotchy and red, like she’d been crying for hours. She kept saying something about how no one cared about her, how she was all alone, and how I was the only person who understood her.

I tried to calm her down, but honestly, I was annoyed. I had plans that night, and I didn’t have time to deal with her drama. So, I told her what she needed to hear.

“You’re not alone, Carrie,” I said. “But you’re going to be if you keep acting like this. People don’t want to be around someone who’s always falling apart. You have to pull yourself together.”

She just stared at me, her eyes wide and wet, like I’d said something profound. I thought maybe I’d gotten through to her, that maybe she’d finally see what I’d been trying to tell her all along.

I was wrong, of course.

She disappeared the next day.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I mean, people disappear all the time, don’t they? Sometimes, they just need space to figure things out. I figured she’d gone off to some friend’s house or maybe taken a trip out of town to clear her head. She’d come back when she was ready.

But when days turned into weeks, people started to panic. Her family, her friends—they all went crazy, plastering her face on every telephone pole, every street corner. They talked about her like she was this fragile little bird, like she couldn’t handle the world and it had swallowed her whole.

I knew better, though.

I knew Carrie was fine. She always made a big deal out of nothing, always wanted to be the center of attention. This was just another one of her games, another way to make people worry about her. She’d come back when she got tired of playing the victim.

But then the police started asking questions. They came to my apartment, wanting to know when I’d last seen her, what we’d talked about, if she’d mentioned anything about leaving town. I told them the truth, of course. I’ve got nothing to hide.

“She was upset,” I said. “But Carrie was always upset about something. I didn’t think it was serious.”

They looked at me like they didn’t believe me. Like I was hiding something. It’s funny how people always assume the worst, isn’t it? Just because Carrie and I weren’t as close as people thought, they automatically assumed I must have known more than I was letting on.

But I didn’t. I swear.

Things got worse after that. People stopped talking to me, started giving me these weird looks, like they were afraid of me or something. Even my so-called friends started to distance themselves. It was like they thought Carrie’s disappearance was somehow my fault, like I’d pushed her to do something drastic.

But that’s not true. I tried to help her. I tried to make her see that the way she was living wasn’t sustainable, that she needed to get a grip on reality. It’s not my fault if she couldn’t handle the truth.

Weeks turned into months, and the search for Carrie fizzled out. People moved on, or at least they pretended to. But I could still feel their eyes on me, could still hear the whispers when I walked into a room. It’s not easy being the person everyone secretly blames but never accuses outright. It’s exhausting, actually.

Sometimes I think about what I could’ve done differently. Maybe if I’d been a little gentler with her, if I’d lied a little, told her what she wanted to hear instead of what she needed to, things would’ve turned out differently. But that’s not who I am. I don’t coddle people. I don’t lie. The truth is always better, no matter how hard it is to hear.

Carrie couldn’t handle the truth. That’s not my fault. Some people just aren’t built for it.

They found her body yesterday.

I guess that’s what prompted me to write all this down. It’s been months since she disappeared, and I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing. But now, with everyone talking about her again, I can feel the tension building. They haven’t said how she died yet, but I’m sure it’s something tragic. People like Carrie don’t just go quietly, you know?

I’ve been thinking about what I’ll say when the police come back, because they will. I’m sure they’ll have more questions now that her body’s been found. But I’m not worried. I know the truth, and that’s all that matters.

Besides, I’ve always been right.