Whispers in the Glass

Mirror, mirror on the wall, let the reflection be exactly me when I open my eyes to look.

I’ve stood here so many times before, waiting. Not for answers, but for comfort. For something to tell me that maybe, just maybe, I’m enough. But the reflection always seems just shy of perfect, a version of myself I can't quite reach.

“You know…” I start, my voice low, like I’m confessing to a friend. “I tell people to love themselves all the time. I help them pick up their pieces, and encourage them to look inside and find beauty. But me?” I chuckle, bitterly. “I don’t think I even know what that means anymore.”

The mirror, as always, listens. Silent, reflective.

“I've held hands through the darkest moments, stayed up late talking them off the ledge, pulled them out of storms they didn’t even know they were in,” I continue, my fingers tracing the cold edge of the glass. “But where’s my hand? Where’s the one pulling me out?”

The reflection doesn’t answer. It never does. But I keep talking because sometimes it’s easier to speak to something that won’t speak back. No judgment, pity, or hollow words meant to soothe. Just… silence.

“I feel like I’m crumbling inside,” I whisper, staring into my own eyes, searching for the strength I pretend to have. “I’m tired of being the strong one, the reliable one. It feels like a weight I can’t lift anymore, and I’m sinking.”

My shoulders slump, the familiar tightness in my chest returning, that quiet ache that never fully leaves.

“I cry,” I admit, my voice trembling. “Not just in the shower, there’s something too cliché about that. But… when I’m cutting onions.” I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s easier to pretend the tears have a reason. At least then, I’m not breaking down for no reason at all.”

As the tears begin to blur the edges of the reflection, and I wipe them away before they fall. Not tonight. Not in front of the mirror. It’s the only place left where I still try to hold it together.

“I want to love myself,” I say softly, barely above a whisper. “I want to feel like I deserve the same love I give to others. But I don’t. Not yet.”

I step back, running a hand through my hair, and sigh. The weight on my chest doesn’t lift, but it settles, familiar. I’ve been here before. I’ll be here again.

“Thanks for listening,” I say to the mirror, my voice thick with unspoken exhaustion. “You’re the only one who does.”

And with that, I turn away. Even though it’s the only place where I can speak freely, I can’t bear to stay too long. Not tonight.

The reflection watches me leave, silent, still. As always it awaits for the next confession. The next tear. The next burden is too heavy to carry alone.