Where the Mirror Forgets My Name

I press my knuckles into my hair, not to fix it, but to hold the shape of a thought I cannot finish. The mirror does not answer me; it only smears my face in warm amber light until I am less a person and more an outline, a soft blur at the edge of the frame where the wooden slats begin their quiet breathing.
I lift the phone—its dark glass catching the city's distant hum—and for a heartbeat I forget whether I am taking her picture or letting herself take mine. The woman in the reflection tilts her chin, lips parted on a word she will never speak aloud, and that silence is the whole romance: no grand gesture, only the slow warmth of being seen by myself at the hour when the world stops demanding.
He called an hour ago and said nothing important, which was everything. I kept his voice under my skin like a second heartbeat. Now, standing barefoot on cool tile, I understand that healing is not a destination but this very blur—the place where the day dissolves into possibility and my name becomes just another soft edge in the light.

Editor: The Unfinished