I woke to the same grey light pressing through the glass, a soft hum in the walls like a machine that never asks. Coffee. Coat. The door. The street. Every motion oiled, every gesture complete. I traded words with a face I know, the kind of talk that lets no blood flow. And I walked away feeling nothing at all— not even the echo of the fall. I have mastered the act of being fine. The smile, the nod, the steady line. But the cracks don't scream—they simply wait, a quiet fracture in the shape of fate. There's a craze in the stillness now, a split that runs through the ordinary. I walk, I speak, I play my part, but the mirror holds a different heart. And it stares through me like a threat, a face that I have not met yet. I caught my reflection in the bathroom light— it did not match the man I was last night. The eyes were mine, but the weight behind was older than the years I call mine. I pressed my palm against the cold, hard plane; the glass stayed still, but something in me strained. And I whispered low, like a man possessed: "Are you the ghost, or am I the guest?" Every day I rise and wear my name like a coat that never fit the frame. But the seams are pulling, thread by thread, and the man in the mirror wants me dead. There's a craze in the stillness now, a split that runs through the ordinary. I walk, I speak, I play my part, but the mirror holds a different heart. And it stares through me like a threat, a face that I have not met yet. I have been living like a photograph— flat, composed, untouched by grief. But the paper bends, the image cracks, and something underneath begins to breathe. I am not afraid of falling. I am afraid I have already fallen, and no one noticed, not even me. This is not the breaking of bones. This is the breaking of the mask. The slow, elegant ruin of a man who learned to survive without living. I have smiled at strangers, paid my debts, kept the lights on— but the room has been dark for years. And tonight, the mirror finally speaks. And it asks the only question left: "Who are you when no one is watching?" And I do not have an answer. There's a craze in the stillness now— not the fall, but the rising. I have worn this life like a crown of glass, but the cracks were always there. I will not turn away again. I will face the face that calls my name. I will tear the quiet open and find out what I have become. The mirror waits... The room is still... But I am not the same... And I never will be again.
