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An actor
London. Twenty twenty-five. October eleventh.

Actors live in mirrors. Dressing rooms, quick changes, endless makeup checks. You learn to treat the glass like a friend, even when it’s cruel.

I was rehearsing alone. Small black-box theatre. One cracked mirror backstage, edges warped with age. I stood there running lines, watching my mouth. My reflection stayed silent.

Not delayed. Not late. Silent.

My lips moved, my voice filled the room. The mirror version mouthed nothing. Then, halfway through the scene, he grinned. Not my line. Not my mood. His own choice.

I dropped character. He didn’t. He stepped closer, pressed a hand to the inside of the glass. I saw fingerprints smear, as if the surface was fogged from within.

Stage managers love pranks. But the theatre was empty. The mirror was locked to the wall.

I can’t stop thinking: what if it’s jealous? We perform in front of audiences, we get applause. The mirror rehearses us endlessly, but never gets to speak. Maybe October is when it demands a role.