Does she see what I see when I look at her?

I hear her sigh softly as she stares, focusing on the same areas of her body every time. Her nose, her back. Features that make her frown. Why does she not stare at the areas she loves: her beautiful sapphire blue eyes, the gentle structure of her face, her golden hair?

There are days when she smiles as she looks. It feels as though she’s looking right at me, smiling at me with a sort of contentedness I don’t see often. I wish I could return her smile. I wish she knew how beautiful I think she is. I wish.

But she can’t.

When she leaves, there is nothing. I see nothing, I feel nothing. Her roommate may pass by me, but she is not who I want to see. I don’t care if she smiles at me. She’s not her.

I fear, sometimes, she will not return. I watch her pack her bags and leave for weeks at a time. This is not her permanent home. I am not as important to her as she is to me.

I wonder, idly, on those weeks when she is not here, does she see another? Does she smile at another? Does she sigh, furrowing her dark brows, until she looks away dejectedly? I don’t want another to experience that. Those intimate moments should be mine alone.

I know our relationship is temporary. I am just another object to her, part of her room. A reflective surface. There are many in this world, and they perform the same function as I do. I wish that I was there for her permanently. I wish I could follow her through her world I have not seen, whispering to her how beautiful she is.

She is my favorite reflection. I wish I knew if I were her favorite mirror, too.

Ashley Martindale is a fourth-year student majoring in psychology with a minor in Spanish AM872890@wcupa.edu.

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