A mirror distorts—
Not in the glass itself,
But in the eyes that search it.
The Woman at the Restaurant
The lighting was dim, the kind meant to flatter rather than reveal. She sat across from him, hands resting lightly on the table, skin glowing under the soft candlelight. She had chosen this place carefully—the ambiance, the angles, the way shadows made everything seem softer, kinder.
He was saying something, laughing at his own words. She smiled, just enough. A practiced art. She knew how to hold attention without demanding it, how to give just enough of herself to make someone believe they had uncovered something rare.
She reached for her wine glass, the stem cool beneath her fingertips. In the window’s reflection, she caught a glimpse of herself—filtered through the low light, blurred at the edges, a version of her that only existed in this moment. The kind of beauty that was not real, but convincing.
She wondered how long she had been performing. And if she had ever stopped.
The Performance of Beauty
Beauty is not just something you have. It is something you maintain.
It is the right shade of lipstick, the slight tilt of the head in photographs, the art of walking into a room with the kind of presence that suggests you belong.
- A man sees a beautiful woman and assumes she is effortless.
- A woman sees a beautiful woman and knows how much work it takes.
- The world sees a beautiful woman and does not wonder what she sees in herself.
Because the truth is—it is exhausting.
Not the makeup or the styling, not even the careful calculations of dress and posture. No, the exhausting part is the awareness. The constant, quiet self-monitoring. The way beauty becomes a second language, one spoken fluently but never naturally.
She wondered what it would feel like to stop. To exist without noticing how she existed.
The Reflection That Does Not Belong to Her
She excused herself to the restroom, walking past rows of candlelit tables, past glances that slid over her like waves retreating from the shore.
In the mirror, she took herself in. Not the version sitting at the table, laughing at the right moments. But this version—bare, quiet, staring back at her with something that looked almost like recognition.
She reached up, wiped away a smudge of lipstick. The color faded slightly, revealing something less polished beneath. Something real.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t fix it.
She stepped back into the restaurant, back into the role she had written for herself. But this time, just a little less perfectly.
And somehow, that was enough.
life 
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