The fluorescent light caught the mirror

The fluorescent light caught the mirror

at an angle I'd never positioned myself against.

Or I stood wrong.

Or something shifted.

What looked back was older

than I'd accounted for.

Not the tired kind.

Not the rough-day kind.

The kind that lives in your face

whether you're watching or not.

I stood long enough to fog the glass

with breath, long enough to watch it clear,

that small moment when motion stops

and you see the actual weight

of what you're carrying.

The person there

was wearing my shirt.

Was holding my bag.

Was standing in the bathroom

of a place I go every day

like she'd been waiting to be named.

I didn't look away.

I looked longer.

And the longer I looked,

the more familiar

she became.