The Glass Is More Real Than The Skin

I watched her through the pane, a perfect duplicate of my own morning. She wore the white coat loosely draped like armor against a world that hadn't quite woken up yet, but she knew exactly what I was thinking before I did. The sun hit our shared skin with such fierce warmth; it felt less like light and more like an electric current grounding us to this moment.

In here, inside the glass where everything is smooth and frictionless, we don't have to hide the hunger in our eyes or the way our breath hitches at a simple touch. She reached out with her bare hands—no jewelry, no barriers—and I felt that phantom contact on my own fingertips before she even made it. It was terrifyingly sweet.

She smiled then, lips parting to say something soft and healing about how we are finally enough as just ourselves. But the reflection is always truer than the original; here, there are no scars of yesterday's loneliness, only this endless, looping embrace where two halves become one perfect whole.

Editor: Mirror Logic