Shattered Mirrors

Rain hammered against the window like it knew my secrets. I didn’t bother looking outside. The gray drizzle was just a blur anyway, nothing but noise masking the storm in my chest. My fingers fumbled with the lighter. Click. Click. Finally, a spark caught, and the cigarette glowed. I drew in a lungful, letting the smoke choke out my thoughts.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” I whispered to the empty room. The words sounded weaker than I felt, but maybe that was the point. I hated weakness. Or maybe I hated feeling it.

The apartment smelled of damp carpet and cheap perfume—the kind that lingers long after the owner is gone. I sank into the worn sofa, letting the cushions swallow me. Shadows pooled in the corners, watching. Always watching. I hated the shadows almost as much as I hated knowing.

Soren. His name tasted bitter on my tongue. He had lied. Not the small, stupid lies. The big ones. The ones that made trust bleed. I knew it before I saw it, before the missing text, the unexplained receipts, the quiet phone calls that stopped when I entered the room.

I slammed my fist on the armrest. Pain shot up my arm. Good. Something physical to focus on. My mind was too noisy, too loud. Images replayed, one after another, like a broken film reel. That smile that didn’t reach his eyes. That hand lingering a second too long on someone else’s shoulder. I hated myself for noticing, for obsessing, for letting suspicion seep in.

I stood abruptly, knocking over the ashtray. Cigarette butts rolled like little corpses across the floor. I didn’t care. The mess didn’t matter. The betrayal did.

I went to the bedroom, rifling through drawers, pulling out old receipts, torn notes, photos. Evidence. Nothing spectacular, nothing cinematic. Just the quiet proof that I had been blind for too long. I held a crumpled photo of us on a summer trip, laughing. Or maybe I was the only one laughing. The edges of the photo curled with dampness. I pressed it to my chest, feeling the betrayal twist like a knife.

“Why, Soren?” The question was a hiss. Not to him—he wasn’t here. To the room. To myself. To the rain.

The phone buzzed on the counter. I ignored it. Ignoring was easier than answering. If it was him, I didn’t want the voice. If it was anyone else, I didn’t want the world intruding on this moment. I wanted to be alone with the anger, alone with the realization that someone I trusted had cut me open and left me bleeding in the rain.

I walked to the window, watching water streak across the glass, distorting the city lights outside. Distorted. Like everything I thought I knew. Every memory, every laugh, every promise—blurred. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, feeling the chill seep into my skin, reminding me that I was still alive, still breathing, still angry.

A flash of light. Thunder. My chest tightened. I wasn’t sure if it was the storm outside or the storm inside me. Probably both.

I sat back down, letting my knees hug me, my cigarette dangling precariously between my fingers. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. I wondered if Soren had ever felt this way. Doubt, fear, the raw sting of guilt. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was always this way—careless, cruel, selfish. I swallowed hard. The cigarette burned my lips. Good. Pain was better than emptiness.

Hours passed—or maybe minutes. Time was meaningless when your world had tilted and broken like this. I traced the rim of the ashtray, fingers brushing hardened ash. Each touch felt like a connection to reality, the small mundane things anchoring me to a life that no longer made sense.

The phone buzzed again. I glanced at it. Unknown number. Hesitation. I stared. Then, with trembling fingers, I answered.

“Hello?” My voice cracked.

Silence. Then a sigh. Soft. Familiar. Wrong.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” The voice wasn’t angry. Not loud. Just cold. Quiet. Enough to make my blood run slow.

“I—” I started, but the words failed me. They always did.

“Meet me,” the voice said. “Alley behind the café. Now.”

The line went dead. I dropped the phone, heart hammering. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving only puddles reflecting neon lights like shattered glass. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want confrontation. But I also couldn’t stay. Anger was a heavy weight, and I had to unload it, even if it meant walking straight into the storm again.

I grabbed my coat, pockets full of nothing but cigarettes and hurt. The streets were slick with rainwater, the reflections dancing like broken memories beneath the streetlamps. Every step echoed. I imagined Soren there, waiting, smug, like nothing had changed. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw him to the ground and ask him why.

The alley smelled of wet concrete and decay. Shadows shifted as I approached, and there he was—leaning against the wall, smirk faint but unmistakable.

“Thought you wouldn’t notice,” he said.

I stopped. The world narrowed to the space between us, the rain dripping from a broken pipe above, the cigarette glowing dimly in my hand.

“I did,” I said. My voice was steady, but my chest ached. “I always do.”

He shrugged, almost casual. Almost. And I realized it didn’t matter what he said next. I knew the truth. I knew who he was. And I knew, somehow, I would survive.

The cigarette burned out between my fingers. I tossed it into the puddle at our feet. Steam hissed. The rain had stopped, the storm inside me not yet. But the shadows, the tension, the betrayal—they would stay. And maybe that was enough for now.


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