The Mirror: In the Middle of Everything

Every time he disappeared from the crowd, it felt as though the night became honest for a few moments.

The bathroom sink was wet around the edges from people washing their hands too quickly before heading back outside. One of the cubicle doors had not fully closed, and somewhere behind me a tap continued dripping into the basin in uneven intervals. The fluorescent lights above the mirror flattened everything into the same pale colour, making tired faces look even more tired than they probably were.

Outside the door, the bass continued pressing through the walls in steady pulses.

Someone had just handed me another drink before I stepped in. I left it near the paper towel dispenser while I splashed water onto my face. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke that had followed people in from outside, mixed with cologne and stale alcohol and something sharp from the cleaning liquid they used on the tiles.

That was where I saw him again.

He was standing by the sink beside mine, staring downward while his fingers pressed against the edge of the counter. People were still laughing outside. Someone shouted my name through the music, though I could barely make out who it was. Somewhere in the hallway a burst of laughter rose and disappeared again.

But he looked angry.

Not loud anger. Not the sort that starts fights or breaks things. It sat quietly in the way he kept his jaw tightened even when nobody was speaking to him. He looked exhausted in the same way some people do near the end of a long night, except the night around us had barely slowed down yet.

I had seen him before.

Not once or twice, but enough that the encounters had started to feel strangely familiar. Different parties. Different bars. Different groups of people. Sometimes weeks apart. But somehow he always appeared in places like this, standing slightly apart from everything happening around him.

And every time I saw him, he looked exactly the same as before, like the night had simply continued for him in between.

“You ever get tired of this?” he asked quietly.

I looked at him for a moment without answering. Outside, the music changed into another song and the crowd reacted immediately, cheering at the opening few seconds as though the night had started all over again.

“You ever get tired of this?” he asked quietly.

“Of what?” I asked.

He gave a short laugh through his nose, though there was no humour in it.

“All of it.”

He gestured toward the walls, toward the music outside, toward the people still shouting somewhere beyond the door.

I leaned against the sink beside him. The cold edge of the counter pressed through my shirt.

Back then, most people probably assumed I was doing fine. I was always around. Always answering messages. Always showing up when someone called. If friends wanted to gather somewhere late at night, I was usually already there before them. I made introductions between people who did not know each other yet. I filled silences when conversations became awkward. I stayed behind after everyone else left if someone looked like they needed company.

People trusted me with things they rarely said out loud.

Their breakups.

Their family problems.

The things they regretted after drinking too much.

The things they could not say while sober.

Sometimes I would spend hours listening to someone talk while pretending I was not already exhausted before the night even started. As long as the alcohol kept flowing, people rarely noticed how tired any of us really were. But somehow, by the end of the night, I was usually still the one making sure everyone got home safely.

But he never seemed impressed by any of it.

“You make it look easy,” he said.

Another group of people entered noisily through the bathroom door before quickly disappearing into the cubicles. One of them nodded at me in recognition on the way in. I smiled automatically without thinking about it.

“You make it look easy,” he said.

When I looked back, he was still staring at the sink.

“I don’t think it is,” I said eventually.

He shook his head slightly, as though I had misunderstood him.

“I mean hiding it.”

The room fell quiet again after the others left. Only the music remained, muffled now behind the walls.

I remember noticing how tired he looked beneath the fluorescent light. Not physically tired exactly. More like someone who had spent too many nights making sure everybody else was still enjoying themselves before allowing himself to feel anything at all.

Some people get very good at staying lively in crowded rooms long after they stop feeling present inside them. They keep conversations going. They refill drinks before anyone asks. They stay awake long enough to make sure everyone gets home safely.

Most people rarely stop to ask what happens after that person goes home.

Another voice called my name from outside, louder this time.

I could hear footsteps approaching the bathroom door.

“I should go,” I said.

He nodded once, though his expression barely changed.

I picked up the drink I had left near the sink and stood there for another second before turning back toward the door. Just before leaving, I glanced once more in his direction.

He was still there beneath the fluorescent lights, looking at me with the same tired expression I had already seen too many times before.

Then I put on the smile everyone else knew and stepped back out into the noise.

Made In His Image

You are made perfectly. Loved deeply. Never beyond hope.

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