The Mirror in Her Closet

There was a mirror in Lila’s closet that didn’t reflect her properly.

She’d noticed it the first time she moved in, when the whole house still smelled like paint and cardboard. Her mom called it “a charming old feature,” like it was some kind of cute vintage detail, but Lila knew better. The glass was too clear. It watched her.

Most days, it was harmless—just a tall mirror tucked between shelves of sweaters and school uniforms. But some mornings, especially the heavy ones, it showed something different.

Like today.

She stood barefoot in the soft morning light, hair unbrushed, wearing a shirt that didn’t feel like hers anymore. In the mirror, she looked the same. But her reflection was blinking slower. Her shoulders drooped more. Her eyes held something she didn’t want to admit she’d been carrying.

Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it lives in the quiet routines. The way she avoided her dad’s old mug in the kitchen. The way she kept turning off songs that reminded her of summers that no longer belonged to anyone.

She reached for a hoodie—the navy one with frayed cuffs and fading letters. It smelled like dust and something vaguely familiar, like the old blanket they used for beach days. She pulled it over her head slowly, like armor.

In the mirror, her reflection moved a half-second slower. Like it was reluctant. Like it knew.

She stared at herself.

It wasn't that she hated what she saw. She just didn’t recognize her. Not fully. The girl in the mirror looked like someone caught mid-change, like a page being rewritten in pencil, half-erased.

Maybe that was okay.

Maybe not recognizing yourself was part of growing. Part of grieving. Part of becoming.

Lila stepped back and let the closet door slide shut. The mirror was gone. For now.

But she could still feel it. Watching. Waiting. Reflecting not who she was, but who she was slowly becoming.

And somehow… that felt like hope.