The Blue Threshold

I am a ghost made of neon and wet silk. Every time I lean over this pool, I see her—the other me. She is the one who breathes in rhythm with the pulsing blue lights, her skin shimmering like oil on water. In the city above, we are just shadows moving through concrete veins, but here, at the edge of the deep end, she is more real than I ever felt.
The water isn't cold; it’s a memory of warmth that hasn't happened yet. When my fingers touch the surface, ripples distort her face into a thousand shimmering pieces. Each ripple is a heartbeat, a sigh caught in the liquid air. For a moment, I want to slip through the skin of the water, to let the city dissolve behind me and merge with the girl who smiles in my reflection.
She knows my secrets—how I hide my fatigue behind a practiced smile, how I crave the healing touch of silence. In her world, there is no noise, only the hum of electricity and the soft lap of waves against stone. To be her is to finally be whole. But then a light flickers, a car horn blares in the distance, and I am pulled back into my own skin—heavy, solid, and aching for the reflection that keeps me alive.

Editor: Mirror Logic