BETRAYED BY MY MIRROR

I was five when I first saw Kian. We were just two boys lost in a world too big for us, brought together by fate on a Sunday morning in a small, echoing church. I remember the smell of wood polish and hymn books, the way sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting colors on the floor. And I remember him—Kian—running up and down the children’s department like he owned the place. He was loud. Bright. Smiling like the world had never tried to break him. I, on the other hand, sat in the corner, hands folded, quiet. Watching. Kian made friends like flowers attract bees—effortlessly. Everyone loved him. The teachers, the other kids, even the strict aunties who ran Sunday School. Me? I was the quiet one. The “gentle one,” they called me. Luca, the boy who didn’t talk much but always listened. We were opposites from the start. And yet somehow, over time… opposites pulled closer. ⸻ We didn’t become friends immediately. For weeks, we never even spoke. I’d just watch him with the other kids, wondering what it felt like to be that free. To laugh that loudly. To run without fear of falling. But one Sunday, something changed. We were put in the same group during a Bible quiz. I don’t remember the question, but I remember Kian looking at me and saying, “You’re smart, right? You’ve got that look.” He grinned, and just like that, we were a team. By the end of the quiz, we were talking like we’d known each other forever. We laughed about the hard questions, teased each other about who messed up more, and just like that… a friendship was born. ⸻ It didn’t take long for us to become inseparable—at least on Sundays. We lived far apart. I was from the quieter part of town, where houses leaned close together and everything smelled of spice and home-cooked meals. Kian lived in the city, in a house so big it had gates taller than my dad. His parents were wealthy—always well-dressed, always distant. Mine were average. Loving, but careful with money. They couldn’t drive me over to his place every weekend, but sometimes I’d beg—please, just this once—and when they gave in, it felt like magic. Kian’s home was like a castle to me. He had a game room, two dogs, a backyard that looked like a park. His room had posters on every wall, and he let me sleep on his bed while he took the floor, even when I protested. But it wasn’t the luxury I loved. It was him. His laugh. The way he lit up when I arrived. The late-night talks under the covers. The games we played, the secrets we whispered, the feeling that somehow, with him, I was more than the quiet boy in the corner. ⸻ We didn’t know what friendship meant back then. Not really. We were kids. But every Sunday, when we ran to each other like no time had passed, we knew something powerful tied us together. Even when we were apart, we were close. ⸻ I remember the party like it was yesterday. We were ten, and someone from church was celebrating a birthday. The decorations were wild—balloons everywhere, cake the size of a suitcase, and a DJ playing music too loud for our tiny ears. Kian and I stuck close as always, hands brushing as we moved through the crowd. That’s when I saw her—Rebecca. She was in our children’s class, soft-spoken, sweet, with big brown eyes. I’d never thought much of her before, but that day, she smiled at me and waved. I walked over, shy but curious. We talked. Just talked. But Kian? Kian hated it. He came over three times in five minutes, interrupting with silly jokes, dragging me away, laughing too loud. Rebecca didn’t find it funny. “Why does he always do that?” she whispered. “Every time we talk?” I didn’t have an answer. So I gave her the only truth I had: “He just likes me. He wants to be around.” That was the first time I saw jealousy in his eyes. The first time I realized maybe this thing between us wasn’t ordinary. When we were 14, everything started changing. Puberty hit like a storm, and so did the world. Our friends talked about crushes, relationships, parties. Kian got taller, bolder, louder. I stayed quiet, more observant, but inside, something was shifting too. That year, Kian got his first phone—brand new, latest model. His parents gave it to him like it was nothing. I didn’t have one. I wasn’t even allowed to ask. But he never made me feel small about it. “You can use mine whenever,” he’d say. “It’s basically yours too.” And he meant it. We’d play games on his bed for hours, heads pressed together, laughing over wins and losses. Sometimes I wondered if he knew how I felt. If he ever thought about it the way I did—what it meant to love someone like this. ⸻ But love, at that age, is a silent thing. We didn’t speak about it. We just felt it—in the way we stayed up late whispering dreams, in the way we hugged a little longer than we should, in the looks that lasted too long. I remember one night, lying beside him, staring at the ceiling. “Do you think we’ll still be friends when we’re twenty?” I asked. Kian rolled over to face me, eyes soft. “We’ll be more than friends, Luca. You’ll see.” I smiled into the dark. And believed him After Kian got his phone, things changed—but only slightly. We still played games, still laughed until our sides ached. But now, he was constantly texting someone. Mostly group chats, people from school I didn’t know. Sometimes I’d ask who it was. “No one. Just nonsense,” he’d shrug. “You’re more interesting.” And he meant it. Every time I came over, he’d put his phone aside like it didn’t matter. He made space for me—in his room, in his time, in his life. He made me feel like I belonged, even in a world that wasn’t mine. ⸻ I remember one night, during the long holiday, I’d convinced my parents to let me spend an entire week at his house. It felt like winning the lottery. His mom wasn’t too thrilled—she never quite liked how close we were—but his dad just smiled and said, “Boys will be boys.” On the second night, we stayed up too late playing video games. He won every match, and I accused him of cheating. “Admit it,” I teased. “You’ve got a secret move.” “Yeah,” he laughed. “It’s called ‘being better than you.’” I threw a pillow at him. He threw one back. It turned into a war. Feathers flying, laughter bouncing off the walls. And then… silence. We were lying on the floor, breathless. Our faces inches apart. “This is my favorite place,” he said quietly. “What? The floor?” I teased. “No.” He looked right at me. “Next to you.” My chest tightened. I didn’t know how to respond. So I didn’t. I just smiled and looked away. But my heart—my stupid, quiet heart—held onto those words like a secret prayer. ⸻ The next morning, his mother pulled him aside in the hallway. She didn’t know I was listening. “You need to stop getting so attached,” she whispered harshly. “It’s not healthy. He’s not like you. You have different lives.” I heard Kian sigh. “He’s my best friend.” “Boys don’t need best friends like that,” she snapped. “Especially not from families like his.” Her words cut deep. Not because of what she said about me, but because I knew she meant it. She saw me as less. A charity case. A burden. That night, I packed my bag without telling Kian. I planned to leave early, before breakfast. But he woke up before I could sneak out. “Where are you going?” he asked groggily. “I just… thought I should head home early,” I lied. “Why?” I couldn’t look at him. “No reason.” He didn’t press me. He just walked over, took the bag from my hand, and said, “Stay. Please.” I stayed. Not because I felt welcome—but because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him behind. ⸻ Weeks passed. Church Sundays came and went like clockwork. Our secret smiles across the children’s department, the way we always found each other in the crowd, the way he saved me a seat even when we hadn’t confirmed I’d be there. It all felt so natural. So inevitable. One Sunday, I brought Kian a bracelet I made out of strings. It wasn’t much—just blue and black threads twisted together—but I’d spent hours on it. “It’s ugly,” he said with a grin. “Then don’t wear it.” “I didn’t say I wouldn’t wear it.” He tied it around his wrist himself. It stayed there for weeks—until he lost it. He cried that day. Actually cried. “It was just a bracelet,” I told him. “No, it wasn’t,” he whispered. ⸻ That was the year we started writing letters. Old-school. Paper. Folded in half and passed secretly during church or slipped into each other’s bags. We wrote about everything—our dreams, our fears, silly jokes, what school felt like without each other. One letter, I still remember: “I don’t know what I’d do if you ever stopped being my friend. I think I’d break, Luca. You’re the only person who really sees me. I think I’d go mad without you.” He signed it with a drawing of a mirror—two stick figures staring at each other. I kept that letter hidden under my bed for years. ⸻ We were 15 when things started to shift again. Kian had started at a private high school. I stayed in public school. He was meeting new people, joining drama club, going to big events I could never attend. But every Sunday, he was still mine. At least for those few hours. Except… he was changing. Subtly. Quietly. He laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny. He talked about people I didn’t know. His hugs got shorter. His phone buzzed more. But he still looked for me. Still called. Still wrote. Even as he drifted, he anchored himself to me. ⸻ One afternoon, we sat on the church steps waiting for our parents. The sun was setting, casting gold across his face. He looked older. Like the boy I knew was fading into someone else. “You ever think about what comes after all this?” I asked. “After what?” “Church. School. Childhood.” He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. I just want us to stay like this,” he said. “Is that stupid?” “No.” “Promise me,” he said. “No matter what happens, we’ll stay the same.” But some promises aren’t meant to be kept. I didn’t know it then, but we were already changing. Already slipping through the cracks of something we couldn’t name. Looking back, I think we both felt it—that invisible shift. But we ignored it. Because when you love someone, really love them, you pretend the cracks are just shadows.