We spoke about Dad. Even now I can feel him sitting in the room with us, as if his ghost were leaning back in the chair at the head of the table. He had been a simple man, a constable, nothing heroic on paper, but he gave us everything. He would scrape together coins to get me the toys I wanted, make time to take us to the hills near Lusong, to the old fort, always smiling, always laughing, even when the world was cruel and unfair, he never let me feel like I was a burden, not once.
The day he died, it wasn't heroic like the movies make it seem. Sojong, the next town over, the gangs there have more guns than the local police. They shot him point blank in the neck. I remember being told it grazed him, but he bled out anyway because no one could get there in time. Before he died he called Mum one last time. Struggling to breathe, he told her to sell the plot of land we had in his hometown and use the money to take care of me. "Love you," was his last word, and I can hear the struggle in his voice, the wheezing, the fading strength. Even then, even in the last moments of his life, his family came first. He was my only hero.
Later, I lay on my back in my room staring at the ceiling, the paint peeling in crescent moons, with thoughts about all the promises I had made to him. I had promised him I would be a great actor, and he had cheered me on, said I had a voice people would listen to, that I had something inside me that could shine. But I know now I can never be that. I am short, ugly, genetically doomed to fail. The only roles I could ever have would be the ones meant for mockery, where people laugh at me for their own amusement and to feed their ego. That is not what I want. That would just humiliate me again.
If God exists, I think He must hate me. Nothing I have ever wanted has been mine. My life is an endless loop of humiliation, embarrassment, and pity. It is as if I exist only to make others feel better about themselves. Either it is "look at this hideous loser, I am such a good person to treat him well," or "hahaha my life is bad, but at least I am not him." The thought makes my chest ache.
For once I want to be tall, handsome, rich. Then maybe I could be loved. Maybe I could know what it feels like to love someone, to be touched because someone wants to, not out of pity. Maybe I could feel respect, admiration, and be treated fairly. But no, this is what fate has chosen for me. Pathetic, invisible, a failure. And my mother expects me to be a good Christian, devoting my life to a Being who cursed me from birth.
Morning crept in slow and sticky, draping the room in sunlight that slanted through the thin curtains in jagged patches, warm and golden yet oddly oppressive, shrinking the walls like they were closing in. Mum's voice floated up from the kitchen, careful, cautious: "Good morning, son." For the first time in weeks, it carried the strange, fragile sense that the world might still be whole. The smell of toast and eggs twisted through the air, curling around my nose, tugging at some part of me that remembered normal mornings. She set the plate down with a small smile that made the corners of her eyes crease, tiny lines I hadn't noticed before. I forced something back, a half-smile, awkward and uncertain, but it lingered anyway, like sunlight caught in dust motes.
I walked to school slower than usual, letting the warmth soak in, trying to believe the world wasn't conspiring against me for once. The streets buzzed with life: cars honking, children shouting, vendors yelling over one another, smells of frying oil and exhaust fusing into a strange, chaotic perfume. And then I saw him, a tall, thin figure, clothes hanging off him in ragged strips, skin smeared with grime, eyes too bright, too alive, a smile plastered across his face, teeth jagged, uneven, startling.
He stepped toward me, holding out a crumpled bag of chips as if it were an offering of gold. I blinked, confused. Stepped back. "I… I don't need it," I whispered, palms raised in a polite, defensive gesture. His eyes narrowed, the smile twisting into something sharper, sharper than anything I'd felt before. "You… you… you are me... Mike .. you are mine.. me," he said, voice cracking, strange and brittle. "I see me in you… you are a mirror… you are a mirror."
I had no words. I tried to nod. Tried to smile. Tried to make sense of it. Nothing worked. His intensity pressed in like heat, like a tide I couldn't resist. Then, without warning, he started muttering, curses or riddles, fragmented sentences that stumbled into each other, warnings or nonsense, it didn't matter; it rattled through my chest and my head and I ran, sprinted like my legs could outrun the panic thrumming in my veins.
School felt heavier than ever. The moment I crossed the gates, the sensation hit, chaotic, dizzying, impossible to ignore. Ellie's smile was there again, soft and impossible, a tiny beacon in the middle of the storm. Sasha rolled her eyes and flipped her hair, and suddenly I was a shadow she could sweep away. Josh stayed beside me, quiet, neutral, a small tether to normalcy, chatting as though nothing had changed, a fragile relief in the chaos, but Sam's gaze already gleamed, already plotting, already ready to humiliate me again.
Whispers erupted. "Stop talking about him, he looks hideous, can't you see, don't let me throw up!" The words sliced into my chest like a jagged blade, loud enough to freeze half the courtyard. My face heated, stomach knotted, chest tightening. I forced my legs forward, head down, pretending I didn't hear, pretending I wasn't burning from the inside.
Finally, the day ended. Legs carried me home automatically, dragging through streets that now felt narrower, oppressive beneath the late afternoon sun. And there he was again. Waiting. Same ragged clothes, same unnerving smile.
"I… I can see you," he said again, slower, deliberate, each word weighted as though testing its own truth. "You… you are me… I can see myself in you… you are a reflection… you are a mirror."
I stopped. Pulse hammering. "What do you mean?" My voice trembled. He tilted his head, eyes glinting, the world slowing. He didn't answer. I didn't wait. I ran, legs pumping, heart hammering, lungs burning, each step a defiance, each breath a small panic.
At home, I collapsed on the bed, sweat prickling, shaking, thoughts spinning faster than I could follow. What did he mean, reflection? Was I an invisible shadow of someone else, someone ugly, discarded, broken? Like him? A homeless ghost drifting through the city, unnoticed, ignored? And yet today I had seen reactions: Ellie's smile, girls whispering "cute," boys muttering threats, Sam laughing, Sasha sneering. Some saw me as beautiful, some as repulsive. I couldn't reconcile it.
I remember the words of the scientists, the experiment, the subconscious that was supposed to create a reality that it desires. If true, nothing I wanted had come alive. I am not in a world which I desire. I was trapped, stuck worse than I could imagine, lost in my own mind which I couldn't understand.
Was he crazy? Or did he see something I didn't? His phrases didn't make sense, yet they lingered, sharp, uncomfortable. And the worst thought sank in like ice: I still could not see my own reflection. Was I… literally a mirror? But if so, why did some see beauty in me while others were disgusted? Most people are statistically neutral about their reflections, Nothing makes sense.
Maybe… maybe I am just utterly ugly, and the kindness of a few was a fluke. Maybe that is all there is.
It was the weekend, the ground still slick from last night's rain, and Mum said we were going to visit Grandpa. I didn't mind the trip. The road, though, it wound endlessly, thin and stubborn, bordered by fields where mud gripped your shoes like a trap if you dared step down. His house appeared at last, crooked against the sky, old enough to breathe dust through its bricks. Even before we crossed the threshold, I saw the paint shedding itself in strips, curling like sunburned skin. On the steps the maid swept with mechanical strokes, her broom rasping against stone, her gaze fixed downward as though she prayed we might pass her by and vanish.
Inside, nothing sat straight. Windows sagged in tired frames, curtains drooped in jaundiced folds, the floor groaned beneath hesitant feet. Grandpa stood in the garden with his back to us, frail shoulders caved inward, arms slack at his sides. The sun caught him full, bleaching his outline until, for one uncanny instant, he looked like a younger shadow of himself, like time had flinched.
"Dad," Mum called, voice careful, almost rehearsed. "It's me. I've brought Roy."
He turned. Slow, reluctant, as if gravity fought him. Sunlight gilded his face, but then his eyes found mine and something in him cracked. His body stiffened. His lips quivered. A finger rose, shaking violently, accusing me like a weapon he couldn't steady.
"Devil!" he shrieked. The word broke into pieces in his throat, slicing the air apart. "It's the devil!"
He staggered back, hand clutched at his chest. His mouth gaped, voice still raving as though fire ate through his ribs. Then he fell, writhing in the grass, screaming again, devil, devil, each repetition sharper than the last.
Mum dropped beside him, panicked, her hands fluttering helplessly over his chest. The maid froze in the doorway, broom abandoned. And me, stone. Cold stomach, locked muscles. My body begged to flee, yet my feet weighed like iron.
Grandpa refused to meet my gaze. His eyes darted anywhere else, wild and frantic, as if my face itself could strike him blind. Mum shouted my name, ordered me away. I stumbled back inside, steps echoing down the crooked hall, the house itself seeming to spit me out.
We left early. Grandpa could not be soothed. "Devil," he whispered, muttered, spat, every time my shadow touched the room. Mum's hands shook on the wheel all the way home.
I lagged behind her when we reached our street. The word clung, gnawed, repeated itself in my skull until it felt carved there. Devil. Devil. What did he see? What did he know?
Then, on the pavement, a boy toddled past, tethered to his mother's hand, straining against her like a kite in the wind. He glanced at me. Stopped. His face lit.
"Hey you!" he called, voice bright, unguarded. "You're so beautiful. You look like an angel."
The words stunned me. My lips curled into a trembling smile, unsure, because he was so utterly sincere.
But his mother yanked him back, hard, eyes cutting toward me with disgust. One brow arched high, the other dropped low, forehead wrinkling into a sneer. Her mouth twisted downward as if she had caught him playing in filth. She said nothing, nothing, but dragged him faster, though the boy looked back, still grinning, still certain he had glimpsed light.
Two voices circled me. Devil. Angel. Their echoes collided, splitting me apart.
At home, I went straight to the mirror in the hall. Nothing. The glass refused me, gave back only the umbrella stand, the shoe rack, a thin layer of dust. I leaned closer, breath fogging the surface. Still nothing.
Mike's words whispered: maybe you're not a boy at all. Maybe you're a reflection. If so, why did people look disgusted, scream, adore, hate? A mirror should only show themselves. But perhaps that was the truth. Perhaps I reflected not their faces but their buried selves. Grandpa saw his demon. The boy his innocence. The mother her own rot. Everyone else, their secrets twisted into my skin.
I sank to the floor, fists pressed hard against my skull. If I was nothing but that, if I was only a vessel for other people's truths, then what remained of me? Who was I?
Monday arrived heavy, pressing against my skull, the kind of morning that made it feel like sleep had been a lie. The weekend had been a blur of silence, curtains drawn tight, a self-imposed exile in my room where the outside world could not touch me. Mum's footsteps punctuated the quiet like soft reminders: a chair scraping here, a drawer sliding there, occasional sighs, hesitant, careful, as if she feared I might hear everything. I did. I heard all of it. And yet I wanted nothing, no faces, no voices, no light. My bed had been both prison and shield, and now it offered nothing, only the lingering ache of hours wasted in shadow.
School waited anyway. Relentless. I dragged myself upright, dressed in the uniform that had begun to feel like a mask, a costume I could not remove. Each step toward the gates was slow, weighted, my thoughts tangled in dread that pressed at the back of my head like unseen fingers.
The courtyard greeted me with predictable chaos. Whispers tore across the air like shards of glass.
"His nose, look at that"
"Too short, it's unnatural"
"God, he looks like"
I could feel the words scraping against my skin, chewing at something inside. Some voices, faint, dared a kinder note. A girl giggled softly, "I think he's… kind of cute, isn't he?" But her words were drowned immediately, obliterated by shrieks, sharp, cruel, a blade through the air, and my chest convulsed with it, every syllable piercing. I stood at the center of it, a specimen under public dissection, unable to move, unable to breathe without their judgment slicing at me.
Then Ellie appeared. Her smile came first, light spilling across the courtyard, cutting through the noise. Bright. Unyielding. I felt my chest loosen in ways it hadn't in days, maybe weeks. She talked, rapid and warm, about exams, about notes, about something in biology that had caught her attention. Her hands moved subtly, emphasizing what words alone could not, and her eyes danced, flickering in tandem with her excitement.
For a moment, everything else fell away. Only she existed, the tilt of her head when she laughed, the curve of her mouth, the small way she leaned forward when speaking. The world shrank to her voice, alive and persistent, and I wanted it to hold like that forever.
But the others, the chaos, did not relent. Behind us, voices mocked, girls imitating her tones, sneering, "Oh, Roy, " followed by laughter sharp enough to sting. Boys muttered in low, curling tones, eyes dark with envy, glances that pinched and prodded, like I had stolen something that belonged to them.
And then Sam.
His hand landed flat on the back of my head, smack, reverberating through my skull. Pain burst, sharp and immediate, and for a second the ground tilted beneath me. He grinned. Laughed. The laughter behind us followed, swelling, feeding, multiplying the humiliation like wildfire.
Ellie's face shifted instantly, gone the warm smile, replaced with fire. She snapped at Sam, her words tumbling out, unrestrained, jagged and fast, defending me with an intensity I had not expected. The crowd froze in partial astonishment, some entertained, some shocked, some unsure how to process the sudden fracture in the social rhythm.
I could not bear it. My cheeks burned hotter than fire, the sting of Sam's slap still pounding behind my eyes. Her voice, her protection, suddenly amplified the shame, like a spotlight had been aimed straight at my chest.
"Stop," I muttered, words breaking before they were fully formed. My throat a desert. I could not meet her gaze. Could not. I turned and walked, leaving her mid-sentence, chest squeezing tight, steps echoing louder than necessary, retreating from every eye, every judgment, every pulse of attention.
The rest of the day passed as if submerged underwater. I avoided corridors, classrooms, everyone. Ellie's smile lingered in my mind, taunting me, bright and impossible. When the final bell released me, I slipped away, shadows clinging, hands curled tight into the weight of my bag, the world still humming with invisible voices.
Later, Mum handed me a grocery list, hurried handwriting, ink smudged. I took it and wandered, grateful for the mundane task, something to anchor me. Outside, past the crowded stalls, I saw her. Sasha.
Leaning against the wall, phone pressed to her ear, hair loose. I froze. Hesitated. Foolish hope surged, a spark of something reckless.
Her eyes flicked to mine.
She paused. Just for a heartbeat. Eyes wide, lips parted. I could have mistaken it for recognition, confusion, maybe even something unspoken. Then her face twisted. Mouth curled, nose wrinkled. Low, sharp, deliberate, "Eww."
She returned to her phone, as if I had never existed.
And yet, something remained. That pause, that brief flicker before the disgust, scratched at my thoughts, claws digging in. Not the word. The hesitation.
I walked home under the late sun, arms aching with the weight of the bags. "Eww" was familiar. That instant before it, was new, a little euphoric and lingering. A fracture in the way the world had always defined me.