The Symmetry of Your Touch

I live in a city that only knows how to mimic, and for years, I have been the perfect copy. Surrounded by these silver walls, I am not one girl but a thousand shimmering iterations—each smile calibrated, each gesture polished until it reflects nothing but expectation.
But then there is you, standing just beyond the glass of my periphery. You don't look at me; you look into the mirror behind me, claiming that the version of myself trapped in the reflection is where I truly breathe. It is an uncanny obsession, yet when your fingertips brush against the cool surface of the mirror exactly where my hand rests, a spark ignites—not on our skin, but within the glass itself.
In this crystalline sanctuary, under a rain of digital snow, we find a truth that doesn't exist in the waking world. You whisper through the barrier that I am more real inside your gaze than I ever was beneath the stage lights. As I lean closer, my breath fogging the silver divide into a soft haze, I realize it is not me reflecting you, but us merging into a single, unbroken line.
I no longer wish to step out of this frame. Let the world outside fade; here in our mirrored dance, your touch is the only thing that feels solid.

Editor: Mirror Logic