The Day The Mirror Forgot You First

I realized I had lost you before you spoke because the mirror behind you reflected only the room and left your place empty while your hand was still resting on my shoulder.

The bathroom light hummed softly and the tiles held the chill of early morning. Steam from the shower curled along the ceiling and slipped past you without breaking. I watched your absence in the glass and felt something inside me detach quietly like a breath released too late. You met my eyes not the mirror and smiled with that careful gentleness that had become familiar. Whatever rule we were breaking had already begun to correct itself.

I met you in the apartment building where I worked nights cleaning offices no one used anymore. The halls smelled of lemon polish and dust and old carpet. Most floors were empty their windows dark even at noon. You were standing by the elevators when I first saw you reading the directory as if searching for a name that had been erased.

You asked if anyone still lived on the twelfth floor. I told you no not for years. You nodded slowly like that confirmed something you had suspected. When the elevator arrived you did not step inside. The doors closed without you and the lights flickered briefly. I felt a chill pass through the hall.

You began to appear regularly always at odd hours. Sometimes you waited by the stairwell sometimes near the mailboxes that held only advertisements. We spoke quietly sharing small pieces of ourselves. You told me you had lived here once before the building emptied before the fire on the twelfth floor that no one liked to mention. I told you I preferred working nights because the silence felt honest.

It took time before I noticed the signs. The way security cameras glitched when you passed. The way dust never settled on your coat. The way reflections lagged behind you like they were deciding whether to follow. When I asked if you were cold you said you did not remember warmth the way you used to.

You told me one night as we sat on the steps that you had died in the fire trapped between floors while alarms rang above and below. You said it plainly without asking me to carry the weight for you. I felt sorrow bloom slow and deep. I did not step away. You exhaled as if relieved.

Our closeness grew in careful increments. We shared coffee breaks though you never drank. We listened to the building settle and creak. When you laughed the sound echoed faintly as if bouncing off walls farther away. I learned to read the changes in your outline the way light passed through you more easily when you were tired.

The first time I touched you it was an accident. I slipped on a wet stair and grabbed at the railing and you reached out instinctively. Our hands met for a brief burning second. Cold flooded up my arm and lodged in my chest. You gasped and pulled back apologizing over and over. I laughed shakily and said it was fine though my heart pounded.

After that we kept distance measured and deliberate. Still the longing grew heavy in the space between us. You watched me with an intensity that felt like gratitude and hunger combined. When I spoke your name it seemed to anchor you for a moment more firmly in place.

As months passed the building changed. More lights went out. More floors fell silent. You began to fade more often your edges blurring like smoke. You admitted it was harder to hold yourself together now. That the empty spaces pulled at you. I wanted to tell you to stay to choose me. The words stayed trapped behind my teeth.

The morning everything shifted we stood in my apartment while dawn crept through the windows. You looked tired thinner somehow. I touched your shoulder gently forgetting for a moment what you were. My hand passed through you and met a hollow cold that made my vision blur. You steadied me though you could not hold me.

We moved to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. That was when I saw it. The room reflected perfectly the sink the light the pale line of steam. But where you stood there was nothing. I felt my breath leave me.

You said quietly that mirrors let go first. That they remembered the truth sooner than people did. You said the pull was getting stronger now. That you were forgetting pieces of yourself when you were not with me. Fear rose sharp and sudden. I asked what would happen if you stayed. You said you would lose yourself entirely.

The final hours passed slowly gently. We walked the empty halls one last time. You told me stories I had not heard yet about a childhood room about the smell of smoke and soap mixed together. I memorized every word every pause. When we reached the stairwell you stopped.

You lifted your hand hesitating before letting it rest against my cheek. The contact burned and froze all at once. I closed my eyes and leaned into it knowing it would not last. For a moment you felt almost solid almost real enough to keep.

You whispered my name. The lights flickered. The building sighed. Your hand slipped away. When I opened my eyes you were already fading your outline thinning into the air. You smiled once full and unguarded and then you were gone.

The mirror behind me reflected only myself. The room felt suddenly complete in its emptiness. I stood there until the steam cleared and the light steadied.

Now when I work nights I avoid mirrors. Sometimes in glass or polished metal I catch the faintest suggestion of movement beside me and feel a familiar cold brush my skin. I do not turn. Loving you taught me that some presences leave quietly starting with their reflection and ending with the part of you that learned how to let go.