Her and the Mirror

The first real crack appeared on the bathroom mirror.

It didn't shatter.

It split — perfectly — right down the center, without a sound.

Like the glass itself had made a decision.

Like it wanted to divide the reflection before I could.

I stood still.

Half of my face stared back.

The other half — hers.

Same lips.

Same scar above the left brow.

Same tired eyes.

But she blinked before I did.

Again.

---

> "You're late," she said.

> "Late for what?"

> "For the realization."

Her voice wasn't distorted.

It wasn't eerie or monstrous.

It was familiar.

Almost… disappointed.

---

The mirror began to ripple.

Glass becoming water.

Reflection becoming doorway.

I stepped forward — or maybe she stepped backward — and the world inverted.

---

I found myself standing in a studio.

Not mine.

Not anymore.

Everything was reversed.

Chords ran left to right.

Piano keys black where white should be.

Framed awards hung upside down.

And in the center of the room: her.

Tuning a guitar.

Whistling the chorus of my first single.

Except… it wasn't quite right.

The melody curved in places I would never write.

The lyrics were rewritten:

> "You never loved me softly —

You just lacked the volume to scream."

She strummed.

Then looked up.

---

> "I wasn't born from your wounds," she said.

"I was born from your edits."

> "Edits?"

> "Every time you silenced a truth.

Every line you cut to keep your image intact.

Every feeling you auto-tuned into something palatable."

> "I was what you refused to record."

---

I laughed.

But it came out broken.

> "You're just a metaphor. An allegory. I created you."

She shrugged.

> "Maybe. But I got finished."

---

I walked around the studio.

Everywhere I looked, she had left traces:

A gold record with both our names scratched into it.

A handwritten setlist labeled: "The Better Version."

Fan letters addressed to her.

Signed: "To the real one."

---

I picked up one of her notebooks.

Same handwriting.

Different intent.

Lyrics laced with venom, clarity, strength I'd never written.

> "I held your silence until it choked me."

"I kissed your audience so they'd forget your fear."

I turned to her.

> "Why now? Why emerge?"

She smiled.

Not cruelly.

Just… tired.

> "Because you started listening.

And I've always been loud.

You just wore better headphones."

---

She gestured to the mic stand.

> "Sing with me. Just once."

> "Why?"

> "Because they need both of us to hear the truth.

And because you're losing your voice, aren't you?"

---

And I was.

Not physically.

Creatively.

Emotionally.

Every melody I tried writing lately sounded like someone else.

Every word I penned looked like it had been copied from a better draft.

My audience had begun whispering things I feared.

> "She used to feel more honest."

"I miss the raw version."

Was that her?

Or me?

Or did it matter?

---

I walked to the mic.

Took a breath.

> "One song," I said.

> "Not a duet. A confrontation."

She nodded.

We began.

---

She sang the verses.

Strong. Controlled. Daring.

I sang the chorus.

Hesitant. Bleeding. Repeating lines I thought I'd lost.

The song was about us.

But also about me.

> "When did I stop being my own story?"

"When did I become your sequel?"

---

The studio walls responded.

Visuals flashed across the monitors:

My childhood videos, overlapped with footage of her performing them better.

My old interviews, lip-synced by her mouth.

A graph of streams — hers climbing, mine plateauing.

And a final image:

A mirror.

No reflection.

---

When the song ended, I was crying.

She wasn't.

But she looked like she wanted to.

> "You can't keep living with half a voice," she said.

> "You can't keep taking mine."

---

I took a step forward.

> "If we're the same… then who's the shadow?"

She tilted her head.

> "I stopped being the shadow the moment they saw me."

> "Then what am I?"

She came closer.

Whispered:

> "You're the one who gave up your spotlight.

To make the room less dangerous."

---

I sat down.

Hands shaking.

> "Then what do you want?"

She didn't answer immediately.

She walked to the board.

Pressed a button.

A track began to play.

A new one.

Untitled.

Half of it was her voice.

The other half — blank.

Waiting.

---

She looked at me.

> "Finish it. With truth. Not pain.

And not for them — for us."

---

I reached for the mic.

Felt the weight of everything I had buried.

Every lyric I'd watered down.

Every confession I rewrote to be more "relatable."

And then I sang:

> "You were never my enemy —

You were the echo I called into being

when I couldn't scream loud enough to be real."

---

She closed her eyes.

And faded.

Not vanished.

Integrated.

Like the memory had returned to the body it belonged to.

Like the song was finally whole.

---

The mirror reappeared.

No crack this time.

Just me.

Fully me.

Hair unbrushed.

Eyes raw.

Smile — honest.

And in the glass, beneath the surface,

I saw her still.

Not haunting.

Just… waiting.

If I ever needed to find my voice again.