The Woman in the Mirror
I don't cry.
Not because I'm strong. Because I've forgotten how.
The mirror in my bathroom is cracked. A long diagonal line runs across it, splitting my reflection in two. I stare into both sides — the girl with the soft eyes and the woman with blood on her hands. They look nothing alike, but they breathe the same air.
I sit on the edge of the tub, barefoot, wrapped in a towel that still smells like fire.
The scarf is gone.
I left it behind.
That wasn't part of the plan.
The burner number buzzed yesterday. Just once.
No message.
Just a notification that the picture had been opened.
Someone saw it.
Someone knows.
---
I walk into my living room, pull the red notebook out from the drawer, and flip back to lesson one.
"Silence is not weakness."
I flip forward.
"Some men need a stage."
"Not all exits are doors."
"Control is not about power. It's about restraint."
I stare at my own handwriting, trying to remember if I believed these things when I wrote them.
Or if I just wanted to.
I pick up a pen.
Write one sentence beneath the last flame:
> What if the monster isn't hiding anymore? What if she's just tired?
---
There's a knock on my door.
I freeze.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Then two more.
A rhythm I know.
I open the door halfway.
She's standing there.
Maya.
Maya with her wide eyes and trembling fingers. Maya with the scar above her lip that never faded.
She was the first girl I ever taught how to run.
"Ayo…"
Her voice cracks like glass.
I let her in.
---
She doesn't ask if I'm okay. She knows better.
Instead, she drops her bag and says, "They found Teni. In the canal. He had your picture in his wallet."
My throat tightens.
Teni.
Not the victim.
The mistake.
The one I let live.
The one I warned.
I feel my pulse rise like heat from an open flame.
Maya sits across from me. "They think you're dead," she says. "They're planning something. I heard them say your name. Real name."
I clench my fists.
So it begins.
---
That night, I don't sleep.
I watch myself in the mirror again.
And I talk — out loud — to the woman looking back.
"You made rules," I whisper.
"You broke them."
She doesn't respond.
But she doesn't look away either.
I reach out, tracing the cracked glass with my finger.
From my forehead to my jaw.
The line cuts me in two.
> The girl who wanted to survive.
The woman who learned how to kill.
And in the silence, I understand something new:
> The scariest part about being a monster isn't becoming one... it's realizing you like it.