When we look in the mirror, what do we see? Do we see the fragile heart of someone, on the verge of breaking? Do we see all their inner thoughts, their tireless demons, the wounds of their youth? No. We see only their surface. The small flaws on their chin, the light flushing of their cheek, the wave of their hair.

Megan stood firmly in front of the full-length mirror, staring intently into the reflection gazing back at her. It had not been her intention to lie. To pretend she was ready to date again, when in reality she would have been better off alone. But that was the problem. Being alone. She couldn’t be. Not since he had left the first time, her father that is. He had walked out of their lives, hers and her brother, leaving them utterly alone. Leaving her in charge. She was 12. Far too young for that kind of existence. Her brother a mere 10. But that was the way the world was sometimes. Cruel. Unforgiving. Confusing. Dire.

Her mate had been gone longer than her father was the first time. Six months it had been now. Not a phone call, not a letter, not even a return for the closet full of clothes, left hanging drably in the hall. It was not her responsibility, to heal people, she knew that. But she had thought, maybe just this once, she could.

He was tall, like her father. Dark skinned, light eyes. Not like her father. There were things he did, things he said, that had made her believe he could stay, he could be different. She wondered why she let people come and go so easily, in and out of her life, no responsibility taken. A swinging door of acceptance, that’s how she felt. When he came back the second time, her father that is, he smelled of booze. Booze and regret. Regret but not shame. A fine line. Her mate had done the opposite, returning with shame, but no sense of regret. So little in fact, he did it again.

He left her alone there. Staring at herself in the mirror intently. Trying to see the wounds inside of herself that would cause her to continue down this path. This path of unending acceptance, tolerance of the worst kind. She looked desperately for the cracks, the unhealed parts, what it was inside of her that caused her this kind of pain. But she saw nothing. She saw only the flush of her cheek, the small flaws on her chin, and the wave of her hair. The heart of glass she held within, stayed hidden, right below the surface.