I could only watch in disappointment as you grimaced into the mirror. It was pristine, freshly cleaned, and even had a trim of gold flowers around it. That’s how I always knew that look of contempt wasn’t meant for the mirror itself. I remained mute for the time being, a quiet spectator, a presence in the background. You seemed to need the time to feel, to grapple with the storm of emotions, and I held my breath as you struggled to hold back tears, white flags of resignation. But your eyes, they glistened, and the reddened, overworked blood vessels within them told me this wasn’t the first time. After minutes of feeling the pain you poured out, I could quietly watch no more. “Turn your back to the mirror,” I gritted. You felt it as a gasp for air, a moment between release. “Those are not your eyes. You are looking with the gaze of the world, so close them.” You listened and felt shame, for letting the world get to you, for letting it keep you from yourself. I guided you, more softly this time. “Take a breath and reach in. Grab your heart and turn it around. Then, let me know if you see yourself clearer.” We’d done this before, as an exercise of sorts birthed from our conversations, your internal monologue. Sometimes the heart could be incorrectly placed, shuffled from a lack of care. Maybe it was a battery in need of a little turn to get things working right again, an error between the flat metal and the coil that mimicked the pattern of your curls (the ones that you berated). Maybe the world took your heart for a ball, played a cruel game only to return it violated. Maybe the world made you feel for yourself differently, extracted the supply of love you had for yourself until there was just me, your last strand of sanity, the tightrope between here and not, just a small being that loved you enough to grant a reprieve. But I truly am small, minute, and I can only do so much to battle the beast that keeps you chained.