If If misfortune were the type to walk around in human skin, Mira Rowan was fairly certain it would borrow her face—permanently. Same tired eyes. Same stubborn mouth. Same expression that said, I've survived worse than this, unfortunately.
She leaned closer to the bathroom mirror, which was so warped it made her look like a funhouse version of herself. Honestly, she couldn't decide which was more distorted—the mirror or her life.
Calling her apartment a "studio" was generous in the same way calling instant noodles "fine dining" was generous. The place was barely larger than a walk-in closet. A lumpy mattress clung to one wall like it had given up on ambition years ago. The single window rattled whenever the wind blew, generously letting in drafts that sliced through the room like unpaid rent collectors. Overhead, the ceiling light flickered with dramatic flair, buzzing loud enough to qualify as a roommate.
And the radiator…
The radiator hissed.
Not a friendly hiss either. More like it was quietly plotting her demise.
Pure luxury.
"Fantastic," Mira muttered when the light blinked twice in rapid succession. She tilted her head, studying it suspiciously. "If this place burns down tonight, at least I won't have to worry about next month's rent. Silver linings."
Humor was her coping mechanism of choice—far cheaper than therapy and significantly less likely to ask about her feelings.
She twisted the toothpaste tube with the determination of a warrior wringing secrets out of an enemy. A thin, tragic line finally squirted onto her brush.
Victory.
Leaning in, she caught sight of the bruise on her cheekbone again. It had ripened overnight into a deep, ugly shade of purple, the kind makeup tutorials politely avoided.
Yesterday's souvenir.
Her jaw tightened as the memory resurfaced.
The supermarket manager had grabbed her arm hard enough to make her bones protest when she demanded he check the security footage again.
Just check it.
That was all she'd asked.
But apparently, that was too much effort.
Easier to blame the orphan girl.
Easier to fire her.
Easier to pretend a long-time employee couldn't possibly be stealing.
She could still hear his voice—smooth with fake patience, heavy with irritation.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Mira."
Oh, she'd wanted to make it harder. Preferably by introducing his face to a shelf of canned tomatoes.
Instead, she'd stood there, heart hammering, pride crumbling piece by piece as her coworker avoided her gaze.
She let out a slow breath, watching the steam curl upward until the mirror blurred into a watercolor version of her own face.
"Didn't steal. Still unemployed. Still hungry. Still kicking," she recited, her voice carrying that dry, accountant-of-misery tone she'd perfected over the years—calm, factual, as if she were reading items off a grocery list she couldn't afford anyway.
A pause.
Then she added, almost as an afterthought—
"…Unfortunately."
The word hovered in the humid air, but her chin tipped up just slightly afterward, stubborn as a weed forcing its way through concrete. Because Mira Rowan was many things—broke, exhausted, one inconvenience away from screaming into a pillow—but fragile had never made the list.
Pressure didn't break her.
It refined her.
Like storm-battered steel, she bent when she had to, reshaped when she must, and always—always—snapped back with enough force to make life regret underestimating her. Survival wasn't something she learned.
It was something she was.
Etched into marrow. Threaded through every scar. Practically stamped on her birth certificate, if she'd ever had one.
Mira Rowan had grown up in an orphanage—a hulking stone building that looked less like a home for children and more like something designed to endure centuries of bad weather and worse moods.
In winter, the wind slipped through the walls with the persistence of an uninvited ghost, needling through thin blankets and rattling the ancient windowpanes. Nights were the hardest. The kind of cold that crept into your bones and made you wonder if warmth was just a rumor invented by rich people.
Loneliness, meanwhile, was reliably punctual. It tucked itself beside you after lights-out, breathed softly down your neck, and never once considered leaving.
Children came and went in a steady procession—tiny suitcases, hopeful smiles, nervous laughter echoing down the halls. Some cried when they left. Some didn't.
But they all left.
All except Mira.
She stayed through every season, watching friendships pack themselves into cardboard boxes.
Too opinionated, the matrons would mutter.
Too sharp.
Too unwilling to nod and smile when adults said things that made no sense.
Too… much.
And Mira, even then, refused to be less.
There had been one close call.
A couple arrived one spring afternoon, all polished shoes and gentle smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. They seemed perfect on paper—the kind who used words like structure and opportunity.
Nine-year-old Mira lasted exactly twelve minutes before casually correcting the husband's grammar.
Not rudely.
Not loudly.
Just… accurately.
The silence that followed could have preserved fruit.
The adoption fell through by dinner.
Even now, the memory tugged a quiet snort from her chest, equal parts amusement and an old, familiar sting.
Their loss, she always told herself.
Definitely their loss.
Back in the present, she studied her reflection under the jaundiced glow of the bathroom bulb. Damp curls clung to her temples, her eyes darker than the shadows gathering beneath them—but alive. Always alive.
"Still here," she whispered.
The bathroom light flickered erratically.
For a split second… her reflection didn't.