There is one mirror in the house.
He has contemplated smashing it. Or selling it, or hiding it away: getting rid of it. But he can’t. It’s stupid (so stupid, he’s gone) but he can’t help himself. Because every time he walks by, he is there. Watching, walking with him, step for step. In his min he knows (a reflection, he’s gone) but in his heart he feels.
He sees him, still there, alive in a reflection. His reflection. Sometimes, when he is all alone, he sits in front of it and just stares. In his mind they talk. It’s not hard to imagine; they have always finished each other’s sentences. They talk, and talk, and laugh, and live again. Both of them. When he doesn’t move it’s like he is really there, sitting and staring and saved.
Then he has to shift, twitch, and the magic is broken, and he is alone again (just your reflection). All that is left is a hand pressed against unyielding glass, hot tears and a cold reflection and the truth, the painful truth.
There is one mirror in the house, and it both saves him and breaks him.
I saw the picture and I had to.
Drawing by viria13 on DeviantArt.