Ever had one of those days when the mirror feels more like a portal to the past? The kind that holds onto fragments of journeys not taken? I stood there, gaze fixed, waiting for the reflections to cast their unwarranted judgments.
"Is that you, or a shadow pretending to be you?" it seemed to echo back, mocking softly.
Journey interrupted. Not here, not now. Pause.
Once upon a glass, we had plans, didn't we? Somewhere between the steam and the soap, we lost the roadmap. A flicker of deja vu maybe?
The mirror told me tales of roads less traveled, the echo of footsteps fading into whispers of autumn leaves. "What's stopping you?" it quietly urged. But who listens to mirrors, right?
Am I making sense yet? Or am I just another reflection waiting for a breakthrough?