You never blinked.
You never sugarcoated.
You never turned away—not even when I wished you would.
You showed me the boy, the monster, the ghost, the man.
All of them.
Sometimes at once.
I used to hate you.
Because you didn’t flinch when I looked broken.
Because you didn’t hide the damage.
Because you told the truth in reflection, not in words.
There were mornings I smashed you—figuratively, sometimes literally—
Because the face you showed me felt like a warning.
Not a home.
And yet, I kept coming back.
Not because I liked what I saw,
but because some part of me still believed I could change what it meant.
You were the first place I rehearsed honesty.
I confessed to you before anyone else.
Told you I was tired.
Told you I was scared.
Told you I didn’t know if I deserved to survive the story I came from.
And you never answered.
You just held me.
With brutal, unwavering presence.
Even when the world called me unredeemable.
Even when I tried to be someone else.
Even when the mask fit better than my own skin—
you saw through it.
You still do.
So this is not goodbye.
It’s acknowledgment.
That you—cold glass and all—were the first to reflect me fully.
And now, I finally see myself too.
Not as a villain.
Not as a victim.
But as someone still standing.
Still singing.
Still becoming.