ALDRIC
The bathroom mirror showed me exactly what I'd been fighting against for years.
I leaned closer, tweezers in hand, and plucked a stray hair from my cheekbone. The sharp pinch was familiar. Comforting, even. I'd done this every morning for the past decade. Each hair a small battle won against time's relentless march.
My reflection stared back. The salt and pepper at my temples had spread further than I liked. Distinguished, people called it. Handsome for your age. The compliments always had that little qualifier attached. For your age. As if youth was the only currency that mattered.
I hated it.
Not the gray itself. I'd kept it deliberately. Cultivated the look of wisdom and experience. But what I hated was what it represented. The slow decay. The body breaking down cell by cell. Every morning I saw new evidence that I was losing the war even as I won these small skirmishes with tweezers and expensive creams.
