NINETY-EIGHT | GLASS

I stared into the fogged bathroom mirror, my jar of coconut oil and a small vial of tea tree oil open in front of me, but as of yet untouched. It all felt achingly familiar: the little jar we kept our toothbrushes in, the speckles of black mould in the upper right corner of the shower, the burnt orange hand towel that had come with us from university house to university house, and finally to our first home.

It had been the same way ever since I’d stepped through the threshold of the house and back into my old life. The rooms were the same, the furniture in them was the same; I could almost see our old selves wandering around, grinning and joking, Harper hugging me from behind, the bristles on his chin tickling the skin beneath my ear. I could see it all, but I felt… nothing.

I blinked at my reflection. Same dark hair, only lanker and longer than the last time I’d seen it in this mirror; same dark eyes, underhung by purple