It‘s been a long night and the mirror's telling me to go home. A bassline pulses through the bathroom walls — distant, muffled, but heavy enough to distort the reflection looking at me. Red fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and even with my vision gradually failing, I can feel my worst enemy and greatest friend stare right through my drunk stupor.
The sink's water spills over my hands as I try to wash away the numbness, but the minutes keep slipping through my fingers, as does the water. Though my senses blur the passing people behind me and the flushing toilets sound so distant, my mind is searching for clarity in what matters most to me. I can't rest on my ancestor's dynasty of hard work, what the hell is wrong with me? I'm cut from the same cloth, and who I was months ago begins to fade into the back of my mind.
Looking down, I'm noticing age in my hands - it's beginning to resemble my father's. I wonder when that started happening. I flex my fingers, watching the water slip through the gaps; and suddenly, a low mumble reaches me: "What do you have to show for it?"
I scan the blurry faces for the voice - the washroom stalls are crowded to the brim, but no one is looking my way except for my reflection.
A strange feeling seeps into my skin as I trace my smile lines and dark circles that frame my eyes. No one seems to understand me except the mirror, but even I barely recognize the person staring back. It seems that the older I get, the more I lose touch with the people I used to be, the lives I once lived. Time means nothing but the slow decay of meaning, I guess.
“Old friends and lovers you no longer talk to still whisper in your ear at night," the mirror scoffs.
I used to dream about them every night. The versions of me they once loved. Those dreams bled into day and pressure couldn't stop the bleeding. But they no longer make me laugh.
It can't always be night, so I wonder what you'll say in the morning.
A voice cuts through my haze and the thick washroom air. My name. A hand grips my wrist, dragging me towards the exit. One last glance at the mirror showed familiar faces smiling at me, their stares lingering but unable to follow me out the door.
The gentle ocean breeze welcomes me as my friend and I laugh about how we ended up staying awake all night. My future self is looking at me through their memories, and I feel a sense of pride wash over me for where I've gotten myself so far. So many things I wish I could've done have been done, and ahead, the rising sun paints the sky with the first traces of dawn as I step forward. I don't look back to see what my reflection has to say.
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