The Room Of Mirrors

No one had entered the east wing of the house in over twenty years. Ivy clawed at the windows, dust blanketed the doorknob, and the air around it felt heavier—as if the house itself was holding its breath.

Marla stood before the door, key trembling in her hand. She hadn’t planned to come here. She’d only returned to settle her mother’s estate. But the room called to her, like a forgotten melody threading through her dreams.

She turned the key.

The hinges groaned, resisting. The door opened not with a creak, but a sigh—like something waking from a long sleep.

Inside, the room was dim. Velvet curtains hung limp, moth-eaten. The scent of mildew and old paper curled into her nose. But what struck her most were the mirrors.

There were dozens. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Each one framed in tarnished silver, some cracked, others pristine. None reflected her image.

Instead, each mirror held a different version of her.

In one, she was ten years old, screaming at her mother, face twisted in rage. In another, she was seventeen, slumped in bed, surrounded by empty chip bags and missed calls. One showed her laughing cruelly at a classmate’s stutter. Another showed her ignoring a friend’s tears, eyes glazed with indifference.

She staggered back.

“What is this?” she whispered.

A voice echoed—not from the room, but from within her.

“The parts you buried.”

Marla’s breath caught. She remembered this room now. Her mother had called it “The Mirror Room,” but never explained its purpose. She’d only said, “Don’t go in unless you’re ready.”

Ready for what?

She stepped closer to a mirror that showed her at thirty, the age she was now. She was sitting at her desk, scrolling social media while her partner cried in the next room. She remembered that night. She’d told herself he was being dramatic. That she had work to do.

But the mirror showed her face—blank, cold, unreachable.

She touched the glass. It rippled like water.

Suddenly, the room shifted.

The mirrors began to hum, vibrating with energy. One by one, they lit up, casting eerie glows across the floor. Shadows danced along the walls—not hers, but the shadows of the selves she’d denied.

The Lazy One. The Cruel One. The Jealous One. The Addict. The Coward.

They stepped out of the mirrors, forming a circle around her.

“You locked us away,” said the Lazy One, slouching with a smirk. “Pretended we didn’t exist.”

“You wore masks,” hissed the Jealous One. “Smiled while seething.”

“You called us ugly,” said the Coward. “But we were just scared.”

Marla backed into the center of the room. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did,” said the Cruel One. “And you do. Every day.”

The Addict stepped forward, eyes glassy. “You numb yourself with work. With wine. With perfection.”

Marla sank to her knees. “I didn’t want to be like this.”

The Lazy One crouched beside her. “But you are. And that’s okay.”

She looked up, startled.

The mirrors shimmered again. This time, they showed her embracing the shadows. Holding the crying child. Apologizing to the friend. Sitting beside her partner, listening.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” said the Coward. “You just have to be whole.”

Tears streamed down Marla’s face. She reached out, touching each shadow. As she did, they dissolved into light, flowing back into her chest like puzzle pieces returning home.

The room grew brighter.

The mirrors now showed one image: Marla, standing tall, eyes clear, surrounded by all her selves.

She understood now.

This room wasn’t a prison. It was a sanctuary. A place where truth lived, waiting to be seen.

She stood, heart pounding, and walked to the door.

As she left, the mirrors dimmed, but one remained lit. It showed her walking away, lighter, freer.

Whole.

She returned the next day.

And the day after that.

The Mirror Room had become her sanctuary. A place where truth was not weaponized, but welcomed. Where every version of herself—bloated, broken, bitter, brave—stood beside her like old friends.

She no longer flinched at the sight of her shadows. She greeted them by name.

The Fat One was the first she’d seen. That day, she’d nearly collapsed from shame. Her body in the mirror had been swollen, her face round and blotchy, her arms heavy with judgment. She had gasped, recoiling as if the glass had burned her.

“No,” she’d whispered. “That’s not me.”

But the mirror hadn’t flinched. It held her gaze with brutal honesty.

She’d turned away, heart pounding, only to face another mirror.

This one was worse.

Her skin was sallow, her eyes sunken and wild. Her teeth—she couldn’t look at them. The reflection was her, strung out, hollowed by meth. A time she had buried so deep she thought it had vanished. But here it was, staring back, alive and unrelenting.

She’d stumbled backward, clutching her chest.

Every mirror she turned to showed another judgment. Not just hers—but the ones she imagined others had made. The whispers behind her back. The looks in grocery stores. The pity, the disgust, the fear.

She saw herself as a liar. A thief. A manipulator. A woman who had once stolen from her sister’s purse to feed a craving. A woman who had screamed at her child. A woman who had curled up in bed for days, letting the world rot outside her door.

The mirrors multiplied. Each one a courtroom. Each one a sentence.

She began to question everything.

What did she really look like?

Was she the bloated woman? The addict? The cruel voice? The empty shell?

Or was she all of them?

She dropped to her knees, surrounded by reflections. Her breath came in shallow bursts. The room pulsed with memory, with shame, with truth.

And then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—one mirror flickered.

It showed her crying. Not out of self-hatred, but out of recognition. She was holding her own hand. Whispering, “I see you.”

The shadows didn’t vanish. But they softened.

She wasn’t just the fat. Or the meth. Or the cruelty.

She was the one who survived them.

The mirrors could only free her of her blindness if she opened her heart and soul to who she truly was.

And she did.

She saw herself cradling her child, singing lullabies through tears. She saw herself planting sunflowers in the backyard, dirt under her nails, joy in her chest. She saw herself holding a friend’s hand in silence, offering presence when words failed.

She saw beauty.

Not the kind sold in magazines, but the kind that glowed from within. The kind born of survival, of tenderness, of truth.

She saw kindness.

Not perfection, but effort. Apologies whispered. Boundaries drawn. Meals cooked with love. Letters never sent, but written with care.

She saw love.

Not just given to others—but finally, finally, offered to herself.

The mirrors shimmered, no longer fractured. They reflected her whole. The shadows still lingered, but they no longer screamed. They stood beside her, quiet companions, no longer enemies.

Marla stood.

She was not cured. She was not finished.

But she was free.

She lit candles when she entered, sometimes brought tea. She spoke aloud to the room, sharing her victories, her failures, her fears. The mirrors shimmered in response, alive with memory and grace.

She had learned to love herself—not in fragments, but in full.

And the room, once a vault of pain, had become a temple of wholeness.

She visited often.

Because each version of herself had become her friend.