The Mirror

They sat across from each other, the latte steaming between them like an offering neither knew how to accept.

Lena stirred her drink slowly, her eyes on Cotton. “You’re different.”

“How so?”

“You used to look at people like you were reading a sacred text. Now you look like you’re trying not to read anything at all.”

Cotton flinched. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s true.” Lena took a sip. “I used to think you were a goddess. Now I think you’re just… lonely.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were kind. And that made them unbearable.

Cotton looked away, out the window, where the coastal fog was beginning to roll in, soft and insistent. “I’m not lonely.”

“Aren’t you?” Lena’s voice was gentle. “You built a whole religion around being alone. But religions need believers. And yours just… left.”

Cotton’s chest tightened. She wanted to deflect—to quote Barthes on the death of the author, to spin it into theory. But Lena wasn’t asking for a lecture. She was offering kindness.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Cotton said quietly.

“You didn’t.” Lena shook her head. “You were honest. You told me it was a ritual. I just… didn’t understand what that meant until after.”

She paused, her gaze softening. “I came back because I wanted to see if you were still the same. And you’re not. You’re softer. Sadder. Real.”

Cotton swallowed. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” Lena smiled. “It’s brave.”

They sat in silence for a while, the café humming around them. Cotton noticed the way Lena held her mug—both hands, fingers curled around the warmth. She noticed the faint scar on her wrist, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Details she’d never allowed herself to see before. Because seeing meant caring. And caring meant staying.