If you find me somewhere beyond the glass I stare at, know I am not real. That version of me is neither living nor dead, but somewhere in between, somewhere in the mirror.
That girl in the mirror eventually moved on from the bathroom, and so did I, to whatever the day brought. Every day was the same for the most part. Wake up late, forget breakfast, take the bus to the city, get yelled at by a thirty-year-old woman for making her latte with not enough milk, eat a late lunch, or early dinner depending on what you want to call it, walk thirty minutes to Ladies Ladies, ready vodka shots instead of espresso ones, greet the patrons with the fakest smile, lean in to understand if they said cranberry or pineapple or…
Then she walked in. Alone. Mysterious.
I had made enough Long Island Ice Teas not to falter, so to everyone else, I was the perfect bartender. But my world had suddenly revolved around her. Beautiful? No. Enchanting? Closer. She captured every red, pink, and blue flashing light. A skin so brown you would expect the warmth of the sun itself to be absorbed in it, with eyes so deep and dark they seemed to challenge the depths of black holes themselves.
She moved through the bar like she owned the place, each step more graceful than the last, weaving through the crowds, commanding them to part without uttering a word. Her black mini dress hugged every part of her—her hips, her chest, her waist—oh god, she was such a dangerous mix that I was more enticed than ever to try. My hands worked on autopilot, pouring, mixing, shaking, but my mind was entirely on her.
She reached the bar, and for a moment, I thought she might pass by. But she stopped right in front of me, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made me forget how to breathe. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, and she leaned in just enough for me to catch a hint of something floral, something intoxicating. It did not matter that I was pouring another drink, her presence was enough for me to hurry with the other’s payment and move on to her.
“A Gin Tea, please,” she said, her voice low and smooth, like velvet over stone. She tucked some of her black hair behind her ear, allowing me to see more of her delicate face.
I nodded, my hands moving almost of their own accord to gather the ingredients. As I poured the liquor, I glanced up at her. She was watching me, her eyes never leaving my face. There was something in her gaze, something that felt like a challenge, or maybe an invitation. I could not tell which, and that uncertainty made my heart race.
I was disappointed to hand her the drink, knowing our interaction would only last so long. But she lingered, sipping her drink slowly, her gaze drifting occasionally to the crowd but always returning to me. It felt like we were in a bubble, a space where only the two of us existed. I wanted to ask her so many things—who she was, why she was here, what stories those deep, dark eyes held. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled with the usual shyness that came over me in the presence of someone so compelling.
“Excuse me,” another customer said, breaking me from the trance. I quickly prepared their drink and turned back to find her still there; still watching. I bite back a smile, pushing the card reader to the customers in front of me without paying them much attention.
The rest of the night was a buzz of spilled drinks, laughter, and flashing lights. The girl was lost in the sea of people, but she never truly disappeared from my mind. Every now and then, I caught glimpses of her dancing, her body moving to the rhythm of the Latin music. Each time our eyes met, it felt like she was drawing me closer, pulling me into her orbit.
My hands continued to mix drinks and my feet moved from one end of the bar to the other. As the crowd began to thin and the night neared its end, I finally spotted her again, sitting at a corner table, alone, nursing her drink.
Summoning every bit of courage I had, I grabbed a rag and walked over to her. She looked up as I approached; that same enchanting smile playing on her lips.
I bent over, wiping the table as an excuse to get closer. “Were your drinks made to your liking?” I asked, wielding my voice to remain steady despite the fluttering in my chest.
“Perfect,” she says. “However, I think your bartender friend cheated me out a few ounces.” She laughed, nodding her head to my coworker wiping down the bar.
“He always does. Should’ve stuck with me.”
“I should’ve. If only I knew that earlier.” She leaned back and crossed her legs, running a hand through her dark hair and flipping it to the other side.
“You,” I started but swallowed quickly. “Do you come here often? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.”
She shook her head. “Visiting a friend.”
“Well, um, you look stunning.” The uncertainty in my voice made it sound fake. But she did not seem to sense it because her smile widened.
“Thank you. When that same friend decides to back out at the last minute, I should put in some effort.”
“You capture a room, that’s for sure. You, um,” I stuttered, sounding utterly pathetic. “You definitely caught mine.”
She tilted her head. Confused. But it was her nervous chuckle that shattered my world.
“Oh no, I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression. I’m not into girls.”
My heart sank. Could she not see? I am not a girl. So, she could still like me. Right?
That night was the first of many. Some interactions were kind, many hostile. Like they believe they have some sort of autonomy over my life. The life of a person they will never see again. But with each hateful remark and unnoticed rejection of my identity, I fell deeper into a pit of confusion. Uncertainty.
The worst was when I visited home six months ago. Acceptance is one thing, but change is another. It did not matter if my family accepted me; for them, it was easier for me to be a girl than in between. Saying ‘she’ was normal and natural for them. I understood it would take time. What I was not prepared for; however, was my twin.
“Samantha,” Sarah said, her fork falling from her hands and clinking with the porcelain plate. “This is ridiculous.”
The table fell silent. My parents shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between us, but no one spoke. The tension was thick and suffocating. I felt my chest tighten, but I forced myself to remain calm.
“It’s just Sam now,” I replied, my voice steady despite the sting of her words.
She rolled her eyes. “God made you a girl and that’s what you are. This…this thing you’re doing, it’s unnatural and wrong.”
“Sarah, I’m still the same person,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I just want you to accept who I am.”
“Well, I don’t. And neither does the family.”
My parents and younger brother stare at Sarah wide-eyed. I watched as my mother’s stare turned from shock to serious, as if trying to make my sister stay quiet.
“Sarah,” my mother interrupted, her voice firm, “we’ve discussed this. Sam is family, and we love her no matter what.”
Another wince. Another cut.
“Love?” Sarah scoffed. “How can you love something that’s against God’s will?”
I stared at my sister in disbelief, her words cutting deeper than any physical wound. If this was what a twin was supposed to be, then I would rather she swallowed me in the womb. To spare me the pain of constantly trying to win over someone who had already decided I lost.
“God will never love you. And neither will I.”
Every damn word out of her mouth made my insides twist. It was not only her disrespect toward me, but the fact that she was right. My family accepted me but did not understand me. Did not want to understand me.
No more words were spoken that night, and I left the next morning in silence. The weeks went on and nothing. Sarah stopped her weekend calls, her spontaneous trips to my house when she wanted to watch a show, and her endless messages about the latest gossip in our hometown. My parents were distant too, and I barely saw them in the months that followed. To them, I might as well have been a ghost. To everyone I loved and disappointed, I might as well not exist.
So, as I said, that person in the mirror is not me, and I apologize for making you believe otherwise. For now, I only see a stranger staring back. And in the reflective glass, a girl raises her hand, the other resting gently on the counter as it moves around a steel blade. And as the girl grips the blade, there is no fear on her face. No uncertainty. No hesitation.
With the blade firmly against her throat and her balled hand hovering over the mirror, it is both a mercy and a blessing when she slams her fist against the glass, finally freeing herself from the pain and burden of being a girl.