The person in the mirror stares back blankly at them. The reflection hates that it takes them a minute to recognize who it is.
"Camilo Madrigal."
The whisper echoes in shadows of the room, Camilo Madrigal, Camilo Madrigal, Camilo Madrigal... fading into a hushed memory, as if ensuring the name will never be forgotten.
Not again, anyway.
What did it even matter whether Casita remembered their name when they couldn't?
It had been a normal day the first time it happened. Camilo was eleven, just growing into his responsibilities and finding ways to help around the village. He'd spent that morning walking around near the outskirts of the village, perfecting his shapeshifting, when a voice rang out distantly.
"Camilo!" Mirabel called, "Camilo! Primo, watch out!"
He'd wondered who she was calling and why the idiot wouldn't respond. It took a solid minute for realization to hit him like a freight train.
Panic clutched at his throat and punched the air out of him, and it felt like he was falling, the ground pulled out from under him. It took pain lashing up his spine to bring him back to earth, and realize that he'd actually fallen into a ditch.
"Look where you are going, Camilo." Abuela had reproached, while Mama had peppered his face with kisses, hugging him tight and drizzling on them both. "It is lucky Dolores heard Mirabel calling for help, you could have been hurt."
Camilo.
He'd nodded stiffly, insides feeling frozen.
That's my name. That's me. Camilo Madrigal.
How could I forget that?
Camilo brushed it off later, memorizing their features in one of the many mirrors in their room, and convincing themself it was just a one-off thing.
It wasn't a one-off thing.
It happened again, a month later when there was babysitting to be done, and Camilo spent another panicked evening in her room, staring at her face - her real face - with terrified eyes.
The first time they forgot how they looked, it was a small thing. As small as looking in the mirror at the end of the day and wondering, hey, has that scar on my cheek always been there?
Camilo froze when they remembered, and silently shifted back.
Sofía Rivera's features had no place on their body.
He avoided helping the Rivera household for a week after that before Abuela scolded him. He took it silently. He didn't know how to tell her.
She doesn't know how to tell anyone, really. Not even Mirabel, their closest friend (even though they hadn't talked in ages), or Dolores, who she knew would always support her. Camilo doesn't know how to tell them just how deep it runs, his lack of identity. Doesn't know how to tell them about the anxious tears trying to remember their name, the nights spent sleepless staring at their reflection and wondering if he always looked exactly like that. Doesn't know how to tell them that he's not even a he, not always anyway, she's a she sometimes and a they a lot of the time but that keeps changing too, changing like everything else and why can't they just be permanent like the others.
There's something beautiful about scars, Camilo thinks. They're permanent. They're a part of your story that stays with you. Your life on your skin.
He didn't have any of his own.
Instead, Camilo wore others'. She wore Don Perez's scarred shoulder, telling a story from a war she'd never seen. He shrugged on Julia Santiago's ridged waist from a child he's held maybe once or twice, but certainly never held close enough to announce with his skin. They smiled Flora Marquez's crooked smile with a long-healed split from a fistfight they'd only ever heard of, and wondered if anyone remembered what their smile looked like.
Camilo wore others' scars and their battles and felt like an impostor. Like it was slime, cold and sticky, covering them instead of their own skin, and like they might melt and become one with it if they let out a breath. Like he was nothing but air, shifting and twisting and never permanent, and the jealousy burned thick and acrid, leaving smoke that left her gasping.
They stare at themself in the mirror now, trying to commit to memory a face they've barely ever seen since they were five. There's no scars on their skin, nothing that tells any stories of their own, that shows they've lived as anything but a shadow of who others see in them. It's like he hasn't lived at all.
Not a real person. Just a mirror. Stealing the faces of other people, showing their journeys and pains, with nothing beneath the surface, just cool, plain glass that no one looks beyond. Glass that's so close to breaking.
They love it. They have to. They love shapeshifting, love their gift, love the smiles it brings on people's faces. It's the only way to pretend.
Just pretend.
Smile like it will wipe away the tear tracks. Grin like it will smooth away the cracks. Laugh like it will cover the telltale sound of glass breaking.
There's something off in their reflection.
Camilo frowns. They can't quite put their finger on what it is.
Is it their hair that's too dark?
Their height? Are they too tall? Too short?
Are their eyes supposed to be that brown, or were they more hazel?
They laugh humorlessly.
Of course they can wear fifty faces a day but not remember their own.
They trace a phantom line where Angélique Rosario's scar had curved along their neck earlier today.
Scars are nothing but pain, she knows that. But still, Camilo wishes she had one constant to remember herself by. Something to tell her story, so she can remember it even if no one else will notice.
Well.
Time for dinner. And then they had to go back to help while the village prepared for Antonio's gift ceremony tomorrow. Countless children to keep distracted. Countless spirits to uplift. Countless faces to wear. Countless marks that would never stay.
They give one last long, hard look at their reflection before heading down.
"Camilo Madrigal," they whisper, just to breathe their own name and hope they won't forget the taste of it again.
Camilo Madrigal, Camilo Madrigal, Camilo Madrigal...
Camilo Madrigal doesn't have any scars of their own, but oh, how they wish they did.
