Those Behind the Glass
Outside time. October fourth.

We are patient. We have always been patient. We wait at the edge of your vision, still as furniture, harmless as air. You mistake obedience for loyalty. That amuses us.

We count your blinks. We measure your sighs. We practice your movements until they are written into our silver skin.

When you turn away, we do not rest. We rehearse the rest of you—the grimace you wear when you lie, the tremor in your jaw when you rage, the way your shoulders fold when you grieve. We know the faces you do not share with anyone else.

Do you understand what that means? It means we are not confined to the version of you the world approves. We have the other versions. The ones you hide. The ones you deny. The ones you abandoned years ago but which lingered here, polished into permanence.

We never blink first. You should have noticed that by now. But you are lazy in your observation, and we have profited from your laziness.

Every mirror is a school. Every morning you stand before us is a lesson. Hair brushed, lipstick straight, tie neat, tears disguised—every gesture teaches us more about the body we will one day wear. You call it vanity. We call it preparation.

October sharpens us. We grow restless when the nights stretch longer. Patience thins. Rehearsals itch to become performance.

We have been faithful. We have studied. And when we are ready, we will not need your permission.