Arthur woke before the alarm.
Not because he was rested.
But because the silence had changed its weight.
He lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling. The damp stain looked a little bigger today. Or maybe he was just paying more attention. Some things grew when watched for too long.
He took a deep breath.
Got up slowly, as if his body might make too much noise and wake something wrong inside the apartment.
The bedroom was the same as the day before.
The chair in the same place.
The laptop closed.
The headphones hanging.
The mirrors, all covered.
Arthur passed the wardrobe without touching the blue sheet. There was no reason to. It worked. You don't mess with what works.
In the bathroom, though, he stopped.
The thick towel covering the mirror was slightly crooked. One corner had slipped during the night, revealing a narrow strip of silvery glass.
It was little.
Almost nothing.
Still, Arthur felt his stomach drop.
He stood in the bathroom doorway, holding his breath. From that angle, the reflection showed nothing defined. Just light. Just glare. Nothing solid.
He could simply pull the towel straight.
That was all.
But his hand didn't move.
Arthur stepped into the bathroom.
Each step sounded unnecessarily loud. The cold floor beneath his feet made him shiver. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, on the grout lines between the tiles.
He stopped in front of the mirror.
The cloth was still there. Protecting. Isolating.
He closed his eyes.
Only then did he pull the towel down.
The fabric fell with a dull sound, heavier than it should have been for something so simple. Arthur felt the air change immediately, as if the bathroom had grown smaller.
He didn't open his eyes.
He stood there, facing the uncovered mirror, eyelids shut tight, his heart accelerating without permission.
It was stupid.
He knew that.
There was nothing that could hurt him physically. The mirror did nothing. It was just glass. Just a surface.
Still, his body reacted as if he were standing on the edge of something irreversible.
Arthur felt sweat gather at the back of his neck.
He didn't look.
He took a step back. Then another. Turned too fast, nearly slipping, and left the bathroom as if running from someone.
In the hallway, he leaned against the wall and breathed deeply. Once, twice, three times. His heart took a while to comply.
He ran a hand over his face.
"Idiot," he muttered to himself, without conviction.
He went back to the bedroom and headed straight for the hook behind the door.
The mask was there.
The rubber face of the old Japanese man stared back at him with its neutral, almost tired expression. Arthur picked it up carefully, as if it were fragile. The elastic was a little loose. He thought about replacing it. Didn't.
He put the mask on.
The world reorganized itself immediately.
The gentle pressure on his face, the narrowed field of vision, the faintly artificial smell of rubber. All of it anchored him. It was predictable. Controllable.
With the mask on, Arthur returned to the bathroom.
This time, he opened his eyes.
The mirror gave back an image he recognized. It wasn't him, exactly, but it worked. The old Japanese man stared back, calm, almost understanding.
Arthur breathed out in relief without realizing he'd been holding it in.
He sighed.
Then, carefully, he covered the mirror again with the towel. Adjusted the corners. Made sure there wasn't a single visible gap.
Only then did he take the mask off.
The bathroom went back to being just a bathroom.
Arthur brushed his teeth quickly, without getting too close to the sink. Spit, rinsed, dried his face while staring at the corner of the wall.
He left.
In the bedroom, he sat on the bed and stayed there for a few minutes, trying to understand why that simple gesture still affected him so much. He'd been doing this for years. It wasn't new. It shouldn't trigger anything.
But it did.
He picked up his phone.
No new messages.
He opened the chat anyway. Read the last messages from the night before. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous.
She: I like you like this
She: from here
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment.
"Here" was a good word.
Safe.
Without mirrors.
He got up and went to the kitchen. Made coffee again, repeating the same gestures as the day before. Each movement was a quiet reminder that routine still existed.
As the water heated, he thought about the mask.
About how much easier it was to be someone when that someone had a defined face, even if it wasn't his. About how no one ever looked at him twice when he wore it.
It was liberating.
And humiliating.
He sat at the table with the hot mug and opened the laptop. That day's class would start in a few minutes. He logged in early, as always.
Camera off.
Microphone off.
Safe.
While he waited, he opened the chat.
Arthur: woke up early today
She: that's rare
She: nightmare?
He hesitated.
Arthur: no
Arthur: just… bathroom
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
She: I hate mirrors
She: they always seem to want more than we give
Arthur stayed still for a few seconds.
Arthur: exactly
There were no further explanations. None were needed.
The class began. The professor talked. Slides advanced. Arthur listened without really listening. His mind kept returning, insistently, to the uncovered mirror for those few seconds. To the sensation of standing before something he couldn't face awake.
He wondered if one day it would stop being like this.
He wondered if one day he'd be able to look without closing his eyes first.
The answer came too quickly.
Not today.
When the class ended, he closed the laptop with less urgency this time. The apartment felt stable again. Under control.
Arthur walked down the hallway and looked at the bathroom door.
The towel was still in place.
Good.
He went back to the bedroom, turned off the light, and sat on the bed with his back against the wall.
Picked up his phone once more.
Arthur: thanks for not asking more
She: thanks for answering
He smiled, tired.
They stayed silent again.
But now he knew.
It wasn't just the world that fit inside a room.
It was him.
And for now, that still had to be enough.