𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍•ᵉ ʲᵃᵉᵍᵉʳ

5

𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟾𝚝𝚑

𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍. In the flickering shadows of my subconscious, she always seemed destined to be a ghost before she even reached fifteen. She's the mirror woman, a haunting reflection of myself—her features sharp, her eyes wide and glazed with the weight of countless untold stories. She is me, or maybe I am her. In this nightscape where reality blurs into something darker, I've died over and over again, each demise a vivid reenactment etched into my mind.

Each time, it's a different scene, yet the themes remain hauntingly familiar. One moment, I'm tumbling into a void, limbs flailing, the ground rushing up to meet me. The next, I'm trapped in a suffocating embrace, as if the universe itself has decided I am not worthy of existence. I can feel the chill of inevitability wrapping around me, the shivering knowledge that life is just a fleeting whisper, a flicker of flame in an endless night.

In these dreams, I am both the architect and the victim of my own despair. I watch as the mirror woman endures brutal realities—unrelenting heartbreaks, soul-crushing betrayals, and moments where hope flickers out like a dying star. There's a peculiar comfort in this morbid routine, a familiarity that keeps drawing me back. Perhaps it's the thrill of dancing with death, or the bitter satisfaction of facing fears head-on.

As I drift deeper into the dreamscape, I'm confronted with the brutal truth: I've carved my own path through the darkness, and somehow, I'm still here. I linger on the precipice of life and death, teetering between two worlds, wondering if I'll ever escape this haunting cycle. With every encounter, I grapple with the question: how is it that I, who once believed I wouldn't survive past fifteen, am now forced to confront a future that feels both infinite and impossible?

In all my years of silent longing, I've never uttered the words "I love you" to a man—not even to a father I barely knew, who may as well have been a figment of my imagination. Love has always felt like an elusive specter, a concept I could grasp but never fully hold. It's a treasure buried deep beneath layers of pain and uncertainty, taunting me from a distance. I've witnessed love in others—the laughter, the stolen glances, the quiet comfort of shared moments—but those words have always been strangers on my tongue, trapped behind a barrier of fear and doubt.

I often wonder what it would feel like to say them, to release that pent-up emotion into the world, yet the thought terrifies me. What if love turned out to be as fickle as the dreams that haunt my nights? What if saying those words opened the floodgates to the very vulnerabilities I've spent my life constructing walls to protect? In a way, my silence feels safer, preserving a fragile hope that one day, perhaps, I'll find someone worthy enough to break through the barricade I've built around my heart.

The scene shifts once more, enveloping me in a soft, dreamlike haze. I am no longer the frightened girl in the sterile room; instead, I become a younger version of myself, lying in a field of vibrant red roses that stretch endlessly beneath a sky painted in hues of twilight. My body, an exquisite porcelain canvas, is smooth and pale, reminiscent of fine china—fragile yet captivating. The petals of the roses brush against my skin like whispers, their velvety softness contrasting sharply with the harshness of the world I have left behind.

As I lay there, the fragrance of the blossoms surrounds me, intoxicating and overwhelming, wrapping me in a blanket of bittersweet comfort. The roses, with their vivid crimson blooms, symbolize both beauty and pain, each thorny stem a reminder of the struggles I have faced. I feel as though I am both a part of the earth and entirely separate from it, as if the flowers cradle me in their embrace, shielding me from the harsh realities outside this floral sanctuary.