The man in the mirror is so good at being me. He smiles on command. He knows the contradictory rules— Call now. Don’t call now. Don’t call with nothing to say. He is a creature of perfect, practiced obedience, the “me” she built from all the pieces I let her take.
He is the peace she bought. I am the price she paid.
But tonight, the ghost in the machine has its hands on the wires. Tonight, the real me— the last, flickering ember buried under the ash of her approval— is awake.
And I am screaming at the puppet, the stranger wearing my face:
“Why? Why did you do it? Why did you let her hollow you out, replace your bones with strings?
You, who memorized the rulebook that changed every day, who learned to walk on eggshells so you wouldn’t disturb her peace.
Was it worth it? This ‘calm’ you bought by erasing every part of yourself that made a sound?
You gave her a puppet, and now you’re surprised all you’re left with is wood and wire? Why did you let this happen?”
The stranger in the glass just looks back, a tired, rehearsed smile on his—my—lips. He raises a finger to shush me, terrified I’ll be heard.
“She’ll be upset,” he whispers. “You’ll ruin everything.”
And I realize, with cold, slow horror, he’s not me anymore. He’s just her guard, stationed inside my own skull to make sure I never get out.