Mirrors Don’t Keep Secrets, But Hearts Do

The air here is filtered, tasting of expensive perfume and the sharp, clinical scent of ozone. My dress feels like a second skin made of liquid metal—cold to the touch, yet heavy with the crushing weight of being seen by everyone and known by no one. Every reflection in these glass walls is a ghost of who I’m supposed to be: poised, perfect, untouchable. But my feet ache against the polished floor, and my heart is still trapped in that rainy alleyway three blocks back, where your breath fogged up my glasses and for five minutes, we weren't just two bodies drifting through the crowd. We were home.

I walk past the glass panes where the desert waits like a bruised memory outside. It’s beautiful and brutal, much like you. I see myself in a thousand shards of glass—each one a different version of 'me' sold to the public. But only when your hand brushed mine near the escalator did I feel real. The metallic shine is just armor against the void. Beneath it, I’m still shivering from the truth of our coffee-stained conversation at 2 AM. You didn't care about the dress or the way the light hit my face; you only cared that my hands were shaking. In this city of mirrors and polished surfaces, you are the only thing that doesn't reflect—you just exist. And for tonight, in this vast, hollow gallery, that’s enough to keep me warm.

Editor: Street-side Poet