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A nurse.
Houston. Twenty twenty-five. October eighteenth.
Hospitals are full of glass. Every cabinet, every monitor, every polished tile. I’ve started avoiding my own reflection.
Last night in the ICU, I checked vitals on a patient. Pale, asleep, machines doing the work. I glanced up at the cabinet door. My reflection was standing behind me.
Not beside. Not angle. Behind.
I spun. Nothing. Just quiet.
I leaned in closer. The reflection smiled. I didn’t. Then it bent over the patient, stroked their hair. Gentle. Loving. My own hand hung at my side, still.
When I looked back, the patient’s heart rate had jumped. Like they’d felt something touch them.
I shut the cabinet and told myself never again. But glass is everywhere here. I can’t do my job without seeing myself. Or whatever else I’ve become.
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