Do you see me ?

I show you what is real, but I do not speak. I hold no thoughts, yet your secrets I keep. I have no life, but I see everything. Look into me, and you’ll find your place. Still wondering what I am ? You will just have to keep reading to find out.

After what seemed like years, I had finally gotten collected from the recycling bin. “This one’s a beauty. A bit of cleaning up will do the trick.” In front of me stood a man. He looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with time etched gently into his face. Deep lines framed his eyes and mouth — not harsh, but softened by years of laughter, worry, and quiet perseverance. He carried a certain atmosphere, like fire crackling in a cottage during winter, creating that ambience of enveloping warmth. He drove us back to this beautiful sky blue colored house that had little dandelion details all over it. It was full of character, showcasing the house’s inner warmth. For once I was excited to have a new home. “Richard, you’re back ! What did you bring back this time?” An equally sweet looking lady approached and embraced the man, whom I now know as Richard. “I found this mirror at the thrift shop. The moment I locked eyes with it I immediately knew that you would love the bronze shaped seashells on it.” Richard said as he lifted me up.

I locked eyes with Richard’s wife, Elise. She was smiling so brightly that her whisker dimples began to show. With this new angle, I observed my new surroundings. There was a girl here, Emily. Maybe eight. Quiet, curious. A boy too, younger, with jam on his fingers and a streak of dirt on his cheek. He was giggling uncontrollably at something Emily said. Their parents were clearly the joys in the house, and had the kind of laughter that filled rooms with warmth like steam rising from a teacup. I could tell the house would never be silent for long and I could not wait to start living here.

My first Christmas in the new house shimmered. Multi-colored lights littered the whole house. This Christmas tree, standing tall and proud in the living room, had numerous ornaments, all shimmering when it reflected the Christmas lights. If I had to choose, my favourite thing would be the angel at the top of the tree. I heard that it had been in their families for many generations, having seen many years of that celebratory Christmas. I hope that that will be me in the future for I wished to stay here forever. Throughout the whole weekend, Emily spent hours in front of me, practicing carols, fixing the red bow in her hair, watching herself hold her breath as snow began to fall outside. She was practically jumping with excitement when she received her Christmas present. Ripping the wrapping paper open, she squealed when she saw what she got. It was a diary. A glitter pink one, with a lock and key. She held it up close to me and whispered, “Now I’ve got two friends who never tell secrets.”

I never told.

Later, when everyone else had gone to bed, she’d sit in front of me with her hairbrush, brushing long strokes through her hair, talking softly about her day at school, about the boy who pulled her braid, about the wish she made under the tree. She never asked for much. Just to be understood. Just to feel seen.

And I did. Always.

Then came a colder winter. She sat in front of me one night, tears slipping down her cheeks. No talking this time. Just the sound of muffled sobs, her knees drawn to her chest, her face blotchy and confused. She looked into me, searching not for how she looked, but for something deeper. Like if she stared long enough, she’d find the part of her that was okay. I wanted to reach out to comfort her, tell her that everything would be okay. But I couldn't. I never could.

If I was being honest, I always liked Emily the best. Not because she was always smiling, or the prettiest, but because she always came back. Sat in front of me. Spoke to me. Trusted me. It felt like we were… friends.

Can mirrors have friends? I don’t know. But if we can, she was mine.

Living in this new home of mine was something I wouldn’t want to change. I’ve lived a full life here, and seen life move on around here. Emily is nearly grown, her once pink room now filled with books and quiet music. The boy doesn’t run down the halls anymore, but sometimes I still catch him walking past me with that same lopsided grin. The parents? Their faces have softened in the way time does to people who’ve loved well and worried deeply. They still laugh, still hug in the hallway when no one’s looking. Even in old age they still had that same level of love for each other, the family and everything in the house, including me. They regularly looked at me, smiling like they were seeing someone they had known for a long time. Regardless of whether they knew it or not, I always smiled back, determined to show equal amounts of sincerity and love. After all, they were the ones who gave me life.

How about what happened to me ? Well I’m still here. But I feel a new sense of warmth instilled inside of me by this family, one that I don’t think I am supposed to have. It was like every time they spoke to me, a piece of them was stored in me, unchanging for as long as I live. But I can’t help myself from feeling such an emotion. I can't control it. For once in my life I wanted to be human. To be able to talk to my family and embrace them like an old friend. Was that truly too much to ask for in this lifetime ?