The Ruin Script

fragments of the thirteenth: chapter ii

the mirror reveals more than memory—it reveals the truth. a face from the past stares back—familiar. broken. honest. it isn’t anger that fills the mirror, but grief long unspoken. in the reflection, silence breaks, and the self once hidden demands to be seen.

she was there—me—but not as i am. as i was. a version i had buried beneath masks and expectations. she didn’t look angry. she looked shattered. her scream wasn’t rage—it was sorrow, desperate and exhausted. her hands bled from trying to hold the cracks together. mine did too. our tears weren’t tears at all—they ran red, as if sorrow had turned itself into something tangible. she reached for me. i reached back. our hands touched.

and then thunder struck—
louder this time—and i woke up.

but not fully. i was somewhere between the dream and the room, between who i show to the world and who i’ve silenced. i looked into the mirror again. she was gone. just me now. the me they l i k e. the me who smiles at the right time, speaks softly, never too much. 

the me who performs being a c c e p t a b l e.

but i could still feel her—the version i used to be. the one who cried when she needed to. the one who didn’t apologize for taking space. i’d buried her to fit in. molded myself into someone easier to understand, someone easier to praise.

but who was i trying to p r o t e c t?

because the truth is, i’ve spent so long c o n f o r m i n g, so long folding myself into s h a p e s that made other people more comfortable, that i can’t tell where the performance ends. i became what they n e e d e d. what they p r a i s e d. what they e x p e c t e d. but it never felt like me. i thought hiding would p r o t  e c t me. i thought being e a s i e r would make it hurt less. but it didn’t. it just made me d i s a p p e a r.

this isn’t l i v i n g.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— thirteenth of july, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.