The Mirror Never Lies
Lucien didn't sleep that night.
He sat on the floor of the attic with a bottle in his hand and shards of glass around him.
The mirror was broken.
Again.
Like every time the past got too loud.
---
Aaliyah found him there.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Blood streaking down his knuckles from punching the frame.
The attic was dark — lit only by the moon bleeding through the slats in the ceiling.
She didn't speak.
Just watched as he picked up a piece of the mirror and stared at his reflection like it was a stranger.
"You know what they called me in the brothel?" he finally said, voice hoarse.
She froze.
He never talked about the brothel.
---
"Whore's boy."
"Half-thing."
"A reminder of what men do in the dark."
---
"My mother sold her body to keep us fed. She said it was survival. Said she didn't have a choice."
He laughed, bitter. "But she had one when she let him touch her again. Silas's father. Not mine. Mine's just a shadow. One of many."
He dropped the shard.
"It was Silas who found me in the closet that night. Covered in glass. Blood down my chest. I tried to kill myself with a bottle because I was tired of being touched. Tired of being looked at like I was something that came from filth."
---
Aaliyah's heart broke in silence.
She wanted to cry, but didn't.
Lucien didn't need her tears.
He needed her to listen.
---
"She didn't die," he whispered. "My mother. She left. Packed her things one morning and told me I was a man now. Told me I could take care of myself."
He looked at Aaliyah, eyes rimmed with pain. "I was thirteen."
---
She knelt beside him.
Carefully.
No pity.
Only love.
And something raw.
"I don't care where you came from," she said. "I care who you are now. And you are not what they did to you."
He closed his eyes.
Whispered, "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're mine," she whispered back.
---
And there, among the glass and dust and old ghosts — Lucien let her hold him.
Not like a lover.
But like a boy who never got the chance to be one.
---