"People are mirrors. If you stare into them long enough, you see yourself."
— Chuck Palahniuk
Daniel once told me that I blink too carefully.
I think it was autumn. Leaves pressed like bruises on the sidewalk. His jacket collar turned up against the wind. He was laughing about something I'd said—something I had learned from a book and delivered with just enough pause to sound like wit. Then he looked closer, like he always did.
"You blink like you're counting it."
I smiled. Said nothing.
He was right, of course.
When I was younger, I practiced in the mirror. The average human blink lasts about a third of a second. I timed it. Taught my eyes not to dart. Smoothed out the speed of surprise. I thought if I moved like them, I'd belong.
But mimicry doesn't make you real. It only makes you pass.
That day with Daniel was one of the ones I replay too often. It starts the same: him waiting on the corner, tapping the side of his boot against the lamppost, a paperback tucked under one arm. I remember the way the wind picked up his hair. The sky was soft with clouds, the kind that never quite rain.
He handed me a coffee. I hadn't asked for one, but he always guessed right.
"Hazelnut," he said, "because you drink like someone who wants the edge of sweetness but never the full thing."
I remember how the cup warmed my hands. How I nearly said thank you. How I stopped myself because the thank you felt too rehearsed.
There are days when I think Daniel knew. Not everything. Not the real truth—not the word non-human. But enough to sense the gap in me. The mimicry. The lag behind real emotion.
He once asked me if I was afraid of mirrors.
I said, "Not really."
He said, "I am. I always feel like they're watching me back."
And I had nodded. Because I understood something he didn't mean to confess. That he, too, was always watching his own face for signs of being real. That he, too, wasn't sure who was underneath.
Back then, I had only just begun copying Daniel. The way he moved through crowds—not pushing, but parting them gently. The way he didn't fill silences, but waited inside them. How he'd listen to someone for a full minute before speaking, as if their words deserved a reply shaped with care.
I didn't just want to be liked by him. I wanted to see if I could become someone who deserved that kind of attention.
So I borrowed things.
His phrases. His way of ranking priorities. His posture when leaning against walls, one foot angled out like punctuation.
I even started writing in lowercase more often—like his notes. Soft. Modest. As if he didn't want to take up too much space, but somehow still filled entire rooms.
And the strangest part?
It worked.
People began noticing me more when I copied him. Laughing at things I never would've said on my own. Pausing when I paused. Leaning in when I spoke.
Daniel didn't praise it. But I could tell when he was watching. And those were the moments I felt most like someone real.
In the library once, he caught me copying someone's laugh. I didn't know he was watching.
A girl at the next table had giggled at a line in her book. It was light, sharp, sudden. I memorized the shape of it. I turned away, whispered the sound under my breath. Trying it on like a new shirt.
When I turned back, Daniel's eyes were on mine. Not judging. Not cruel. Just… quiet. Like he had seen something not meant to be seen.
He didn't ask what I was doing. But he never looked at me quite the same after that.
I kept thinking: if I could write him a perfect sentence, maybe he would understand.
Not just that I copied. But that I copied because I didn't know how else to live. Because I wanted to be close to people. And this was the only way I knew.
I wanted to write something that would hold all of that. That would apologize without begging. That would confess without unraveling. That would say: I loved you the way a shadow loves light—clinging, but never touching.
That line was too pretty. Too fake.
I crossed it out in the letter, smearing the ink slightly. Let it bleed.
Instead, I wrote:
I learned how to live by watching others. And loving you was the first thing I didn't fake on purpose. But I still don't know if it was real.
That one stayed.
I didn't cry. But my hand shook a little. Because I remembered the way Daniel looked at me sometimes—not with love, not exactly. But with wonder. With pity. Like I was something beautiful and broken. Like he wanted to fix me but didn't know what tools to use.
He asked once, "Where do you go when you get quiet like that?"
And I didn't have the words then.
But now, I think I would answer:
I go to a place where no one's watching, so I can stop pretending I'm alive.
The letter was starting to grow long. I hadn't signed it. I hadn't decided if I would.
Outside, the sky was darker now. A streetlight flickered and gave up.
Inside, the drawer stayed open. Waiting.
Not done yet. But deeper now. And somehow… closer to true.