The Mirror That Lies Beautifully
A dried rose leans in a clouded vase, its petals folded inward the way a hand closes when it has nothing left to hold. Behind it, the mirror tells a lovelier story, the same rose, full and wet with dew, in glass so clear the light comes out singing. We have taught our mirrors to flatter us, and fallen in love with the flattery, until every profile becomes a small altar to the version of us that never gets tired, never loses anything, never sits alone at the end of a long week . We do not call it lying. We call it choosing the better photograph. Yet both roses are honest. The withered one bloomed once and gave it all away, which is all a rose knows how to do. What breaks us is believing the reflection is the rent we owe for being seen, so we scroll through other people's brightest hours while holding our own ordinary evening in our hands, never guessing that those people stand on the far side of the same glass. Sometimes at night I turn away from the mirror and look at the real rose...
