Consider what is actually happening when the light leaves that phone.
The screen glows because millions of tiny gates are switching electrons across a thin film of transistors, and a fraction of those photons travel to the silvered glass, bounce off a microscopically thin layer of aluminum vapor-deposited onto the back of the pane, and return. That reflection is not a copy of you.
It is the same light, the actual photons your body scattered, redirected by a plane of atoms at almost the exact speed they arrived. The mirror does nothing "to" the image. It simply refuses to let the light through and hands it back, having stolen a few billionths of a second in the round trip.
And the person holding the phone: the arm flexed, the pose held, the tension in the shoulder. Every one of those contracting muscle fibers is running on ATP, and each ATP molecule releases energy by breaking a phosphate bond, a bond that stores energy harvested, ultimately, from sunlight caught by a plant weeks ago.
You are posing on solar power. Photosynthesis, laundered through a sandwich and a protein shake, spent to hold a bicep still for one quarter of a second.
Then the shutter. The camera freezes 1/125th of a second of a body that, at the atomic scale, is a blur of thermal jitter, every atom vibrating trillions of times per second, never once at rest.
The astonishing part is what the mirror is really showing. The calcium bracing those bones, the iron reddening that blood: none of it formed on Earth. It was forged inside a dying star and flung across the galaxy before the Sun existed.
You raised your phone to a slab of glass and captured, in perfect focus, the recycled shrapnel of an ancient supernova, flexing.