TW: Hints at depression.

I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pass it on my way to the door. It’s a beautiful antique mirror that has been here even before I moved in. The previous tenant decided that the best place for it was on the wall right by the door, ensuring I would see it often. I hate mirrors.

But I should probably check that my hair is neat and my makeup is still on my face, not smeared across my blouse. Ignoring the angry eyebrows and the downturned lips, I try not to make eye contact.

It doesn’t help.

“You won’t get this job, you know,” the angry face in the mirror tells me smugly.

I do my best to ignore it as I remove a bit of lipstick from my teeth.

“Why do you even bother? You know you’re not good enough.”

I blink back tears; I won’t give it the satisfaction of seeing the impact its awful words are making.

“You don’t deserve this job. There will always be someone better looking, more skilled. Smarter. More deserving.”

My lips start to quiver, and I feel the tears begin to fall.

“See how weak you are,” the terrible voice taunts as I run back to my room.

In my bedroom, I stop. Tears of humiliation and anger stream down my cheeks—anger, hot and searing.

I turn around and storm back to the mirror, now innocently stuck to the wall.

“You are wrong!” I yell as I smash my fists against the glass. The face in the mirror loses its smugness as broken pieces tumble to the floor. I stare at my hands, expecting cuts and blood, but there’s nothing.

I look up, and the mirror is still intact, as if nothing happened. But the face, that terrible, disdainful face, is now smiling.

I wipe my tears away and check my makeup.

“I am good enough,” I say defiantly.

“Good girl,” the mirror replies as I grab my handbag and step out the front door.