the self isn't safe either- part 3

The mirror had stopped fighting her. For once, it didn’t twist the room into a nightmare or show her versions of herself she hated to confront. It simply stood there, ordinary in its frame. Yet, even its stillness felt suspicious, like a trap set by silence. She sat across from it, her breath fogging the glass, waiting for it to mock her as it always did. But this time, her reflection didn’t look away first. It only breathed when she did and blinked when she did, as if unsure whether it was still allowed to be her enemy. The room held traces of every collapse she had endured. A book lay open and unread, its pages curled like wilted leaves. A chair held a cardigan draped over it, its sleeves dangling like abandoned arms. The faint smell of her own unwashed skin mixed with the cheap lemon soap she hadn’t used in weeks. Still, despite the signs of her unraveling, something in the air felt lighter, not healed but less suffocating. She wondered if it was simply exhaustion, if she had finally grown too tired to battle herself. The mirror seemed to sense it. It rippled faintly, not with malice, not with accusation, but with something closer to invitation. She watched as the glass dimmed, revealing not the shadowed girl who had wasted her life nor the bruised child silenced by silence, but something smaller, quieter: a version of herself sitting in sunlight. The image wasn’t complete. It wavered, fractured by cracks, but in those cracks, light leaked through, as if the break itself had allowed something more honest to shine. For a moment, she thought she was hallucinating again. That the mirror was playing its usual game, hope dangled as bait before the cruelty of collapse. But the image didn’t sneer. It didn’t shift on its own. It waited, steady, as if asking her to believe in it, even if only for a second. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she lifted her hand not to test the glass, not to claw her way inside, but to touch. Her fingers met the cold surface, and her reflection responded in perfect rhythm. No distortion. No delay. Just her. Tears came, but not the kind that tore her apart. These were thinner, quieter, falling without the usual scream in her chest. They rolled down like something unclogging, finally allowed to escape. She thought of all the people who hadn’t listened, all the times she had been told her silence was stubbornness, her exhaustion laziness, her pain an inconvenience, mood swings even. She thought of how much she had swallowed, how much she wished to dissolve. Yet here she was, her body still heavy, her mind still fractured, but still here. The mirror didn’t fix her. It never would. But on its surface, she caught the faint outline of someone who hadn’t given up entirely, someone who, against all odds, was still trying. In that dim reflection, she realized a small, sharp truth: surviving wasn’t pretty, but it was still survival. When she finally stepped back, the glass didn’t cling, didn’t pursue her. It only held her image steady, cracked but lit by the faintest glimmer of morning. For the first time, she didn’t look away.

I want to take a moment to thank you all for reading my blogs. Your support means the world to me, and I truly appreciate it, my loves. I've prepared these posts in advance, but I wanted to let you know that I’ll be stepping back for a few months to focus on my studies. I’ll miss sharing with you (not like I am consistent lol :)), but I know it’s necessary for my growth. Thank you for understanding! sending love. anss.