I’ve been staring at the man in the mirror, not with anger, but with something closer to grief. Not the loud kind, but the quiet, lingering sort, the kind that no longer cries, yet never leaves. It sits at your bedside for years, silent and familiar. He looks like me, almost exactly. But something’s off, as if he’s a half-truth wearing a borrowed shadow. His eyes still carry the questions I gave up on long ago. What did you do with the boy I used to be? That boy’s purpose was soft, like a butterfly’s kiss. His hands, once open to the world, now curl into fists. His dreams stretched wide as the sky, yours are buried in the wasteland you call a life. You worked hard to speak in a calmer tone, to convince yourself this cage was a home. You claimed strength, mistaking numbness for power, then wondered why it felt so hollow. And now, even with scars sealed shut and time dulling the sting, I still feel the ache. I still find myself under those same stars, catching glimpses of the boy I once was,a flicker, a choice not yet forgotten. I won’t hate you, though it would be easier. Hate is clean. But this? This is tangled. It’s a love, fraying at the edges, nearly torn by everything you lost trying to make amends. So I look again. Even if just for a second, catching that faint burn behind your eyes. It’s not bright. It’s not pure. But it’s real. And it’s still mine. And that, I think, is enough, for something new to grow.
