“What are you doing?” I ask, trembling as he kneels beside me. He’s so tall, we’re practically the same height when I’m in the chair and he’s on his knees. I flinch at the image of our joint reflection in the mirror. He’s so beautiful. I’m… I look away.
“Don’t,” he says quietly, nudging the chair closer to the mirror. “Look at yourself.”
I shake my head, panic mounting when I feel the edge of the vanity against my stomach. I’m close now. So close. Too close to that ugly, empty lie staring back from the glass.
“Look at yourself, Genevieve. Please.”
Please. Oliver is asking. Can I deny him anything?
“I… I don’t think I can.” I want to look. He has to know that. I want to do this for him.
He pulls in a deep breath, and I feel the change in him as he leans forward until his own face is inches from the glass.
“Then don’t look at all of it yet. Just your eyes. Come here.” He presses his hand into my back, gently urging me forward.
I blink away tears, focusing on the warmth of his hand on my spine. The way it feels like it’s bracing me against the storm. Is he strong enough to support both of us? What if he’s not?
“Just your eyes. Ignore the rest,” he says.
Just my eyes. I can do that, right? For him, I can. I clench them shut as I turn my face back toward the mirror. I can do this. Pulling in a steadying breath, I force them open. Staring back are two green orbs, lined by thick dark lashes. They blink in unison, hiding themselves for a split second before reappearing with a strange glow.
“Do you see those little specks of brown in there?” Oliver asks in a soft voice. Tender, like those specks are important to him.
I nod, trying to see what he does.
“In the sunlight, they flicker. They make your eyes look like they’re sparkling. I always thought it was beautiful but after reading your poetry, I learned it’s more than that. Do you know why your eyes shine?” His voice cracks on the last question, and I stare at myself, mesmerized.
“Why?” I breathe out.
His arm circles my waist, squeezing in a protective band. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder even as my gaze stays focused on my own.
“Because the girl in the mirror is a diamond, Genevieve. She’s so full, she glows from the inside, bright enough that even the gray world around her can’t dim the fire. She may not recognize herself yet, but only because she’s never looked. Once she does, there will be no stopping her.”
Startled, I study the glowing orbs in the mirror, glistening now from tears instead of sunlight. Could that be true?
Oliver releases his hold, and I watch in numb silence as he pushes up from the floor. He needs the support of the chair to straighten his knee and his limp is even more pronounced as he moves toward the guitar stand. I did that. I made him hurt. Once, twice, again. Or is it the fact that I’m forcing him to fight a battle for me I don’t need to fight. What if the vault isn’t empty, and I just never dared to see what was inside? What if it’s filled with light waiting to burst into freedom?
He hands me the guitar, and I force away my instinctive bristle at touching the smooth wood. I used to love this instrument. It was a part of me no one saw, a comfort when I needed a friend in my lonely journey. But over the last few years, it became painful. It became a symbol of what I wasn’t, what I wanted but could never have. No, I represent glitter and fairy dust. I sing other people’s art, preach a bubblegum life I don’t live and don’t believe in anymore. Maybe I never did and I’m just becoming aware of it.
“Play me something. One of your songs.”
Oliver’s gaze is filled with hope, strength. He doesn’t just want to hear my music; he believes it’s a missing piece somehow. Oh god, what if he’s right? What if that’s what’s in the vault?
My fingers already feel at home on the frets. My back already feels straighter and more confident than I’ve felt in months. I’ve played a little over the last few weeks, but never for someone else. Never have I shared the part of myself that I hide in that notebook.
Oliver waits, so open, so expectant. My fingers clench into an E-minor chord and start to strum. Then C. Then back to E-minor. It’s an intro to a song I wrote a year ago. I barely recognize it now that it flows out openly. With witnesses it becomes real in a way it never did before. Musings become art. Pain becomes beauty. The gray turns to color.
“I see you there with your unchecked stare
How you pretend to care from stage left
Stage right, house lights, long nights
Of wondering who will be waiting
Backstage, beneath the haze, in the daze of the wrap
Curtain call, silent encore
Curtain call, is there more
Whose shadow will shadow the shadow I walk
Alone when the rest have gone home
Whose hand will I hold when my own grows cold
When they’re not looking for handouts anymore
Because I’m not the one
I’m the end of the run
A job well done for the creators
I’m a timeless tribute
A statue they kneel to
A lie they have to believe in
I’m the prayer unanswered
The song unremembered
A lyric rewritten and forgotten
I’m a prize for the masses, a hope that shatters
The hero who falls
Beyond the curtain call”
I’m exhausted after the song, but lighter at the same time. Oliver didn’t say anything when I finished, just lifted the guitar from my hands and returned it to the stand with a contented look on his face. Now, we lay on my bed, him
