You stand in front of the glass every morning now, but you don't really look. You lean in close, you check your teeth, you tug at the skin under your eyes, you turn sideways and frown. You look for problems. That's the whole job of the mirror now, I think. Finding what's wrong.
I used to stand on the little stool to reach it. Remember? I would make faces. I would puff out my cheeks and cross my eyes and laugh so hard I had to grab the sink. I thought the person in there was the best friend I had, always ready, always doing exactly what I wanted.
You don't make faces anymore. You don't even smile to check if it still works.
But I saw you, once, last week. You were fixing your collar and you caught your own eyes for a second, and something in you got quiet, and you almost smiled. Like you remembered me for a moment. Like you were about to.
Do it again. Nobody's watching but us. Puff out your cheeks.
See who's still in there.