Things Not Seen (L.S)

It's a Tuesday morning in February, and I get up as usual, and I stumble into the bathroom to take a shower in the dark. Which is my school-day method because it's sort of like an extra ten minutes of sleep.
It's after the shower. That's when it happens.
It's when I turn on the bathroom light and wipe the fog off the mirror to comb my hair. It's what I see in the mirror. It's what I don't see.
I look a second time, and then rub at the mirror again.
I'm not there.
That's what I'm saying.
I'm. Not. There.