A Mirror Moment

A Mirror Moment

I don’t go to the mirror looking for anything.

I’m just passing through the bathroom, moving slowly, heavily, the way people move underwater. But something pulls my gaze — not curiosity, not vanity, just a faint instinct, like checking a pulse.

And then I see myself.

Or rather, I see the outline of someone who looks like me.

The first thing I notice is the stillness.

My reflection isn’t animated by anything.

No spark behind the eyes.

No tension in the jaw.

No expression waiting to form.

Just a face suspended in dim water.

I lean closer, not because I want to, but because I need to understand the distance between the person in the mirror and the person I feel like inside. The gap is wider than I expect.

My eyes look duller — not sad, just unfocused, as if the light inside them has been turned down. The skin around them looks heavier, like it’s carrying the weight my body can’t hold. My mouth sits in a neutral line that feels foreign, as if it belongs to someone who has forgotten how to animate it.

I look like I’m here.

But I don’t feel here.

That’s the dissonance — the gut punch.

The reflection is solid.

I am not.

I raise a hand slowly, testing the connection between the image and the self. The reflection follows, but it feels delayed, like watching someone else mimic me through thick glass. The movement looks heavier than it feels, or maybe it feels heavier than it looks — I can’t tell anymore.

My face doesn’t change when I try to smile.

Not really.

The muscles move, but the expression doesn’t land.

It’s like watching a mask shift without revealing anything underneath.

I study my eyes again, searching for the person I know — the one who rises, who creates, who burns bright, who refuses to disappear. But the underwater mind has blurred her edges. She’s there, but faint. A silhouette behind frosted glass.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

It just reflects the truth I’ve been avoiding.

I haven’t vanished.

I’ve faded.

I’m still here —

just quieter,

just dimmer,

just harder to reach.

The weight pulls at my shoulders.

The underwater mind pulls at my thoughts.

And the reflection pulls at something deeper —

the grief of seeing myself from the outside and realizing how far I’ve drifted from the inside.

I touch the mirror.

It’s cold.

For a moment, I imagine the version of me on the other side reaching back — not to save me, not to pull me out, but to remind me that I still exist, even if I can’t feel it.

I don’t stay long.

I can’t.

The mirror shows too much.

Not in detail — in absence.

I turn away, carrying the image with me like a quiet ache.

Not a wound.

A reminder.

I haven’t disappeared completely.

But I’m not fully here either.

I’m somewhere in between —

a body reflected,

a self submerged,

a presence dimmed by the weight of the ground.