Chapter 14: What the Mirror Won’t Show
1185 Words
“You once said love makes us brave. I was. I still am.”
“Some truths are too scarred to reflect.”
**The mirror didn’t lie—**but it didn’t tell the truth either.
The light in the bathroom was soft—almost forgiving. Mornings had a strange way of exposing everything while trying to soothe the pain of what was hidden in the dark.
Xander stood before the fogged mirror, the marble tiles beneath his bare feet still cold from the shower. A towel clung around his hips. His skin was warm but his bones ached—not from exertion, but from emptiness.
Steam curled along the glass as he wiped it with one trembling hand, slowly, revealing his own reflection like unveiling a stranger.
His face stared back—sharp jawline, neatly trimmed stubble, the faint scar above his right brow that he couldn’t remember getting. He blinked. The man blinked back.
He gripped the sink tighter.
That scar. That expression. Those eyes.
“Who am I?” he whispered. Not for the first time. Not for the last. His voice cracked with something worse than sorrow—absence.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Victor’s Office – A Conversation Like a Warning
“You’re wasting time,” Victor snapped without looking up. “All these questions. All this... digging.”
“I’m trying to understand who I used to be,” Xander replied, standing rigid before the desk. “Not just facts. Not just headlines. The real version of me.”
Victor finally glanced at him, eyes dark. “That version is gone. You’re better now. Focused. Strong. Not entangled with the wrong people.”
“Wrong people?” he echoed. “You mean Belle.”
Victor leaned back, folding his hands. “She preyed on your vulnerabilities. She wanted what we built. Her and her daughter.”
Xander stiffened. “She’s not like that.”
Victor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t remember her. I do.”
But that was the problem—Xander didn’t remember, and yet… something inside him recoiled from Victor’s words.
Belle’s Letters She’ll Never Send
Belle sat by the dim glow of her bedside lamp, pen poised above a soft leather notebook she hadn’t dared open in weeks.
Hope had finally fallen asleep. The faint lull of the baby monitor was the only sound in the room.
The candle flickered beside her, casting shadows that danced across the pages. It smelled like jasmine and vanilla—the scent Xander once said reminded him of peace.
She wrote slowly.
Xander,
You once said love makes us brave. I was. I still am. But I’m tired of being brave without you.
Sometimes I wonder if you wake up feeling empty too, or if that ache is mine alone.
Today, Hope pointed at a photo of you and said “Papa” again. I smiled. Then I cried. Again.
She closed the book, pressing it to her chest.
Café Bellamy’s – A Memory That Still Lingers
Belle hesitated at the threshold. The familiar chime of the bell as she entered stirred something that made her throat tighten.
The café was the same. The caramel mocha scent still swirled in the air, and the barista gave her a warm smile without recognizing the pain in her eyes.
She sat at the window seat—the one Xander always let her win in their mock fights. His laughter had once filled this room. Her fingers grazed the edges of the table as if trying to pull the past forward.
A flash of memory played behind her eyes:
“We’ll name her Hope,” Xander whispered, kissing her barely-there bump. “Because you gave me that. You gave me her.”
She blinked fast. The coffee sat untouched.
Dr. Navarro’s Office – The Truth Beneath
Xander sat across from Dr. Navarro, his hands clasped tightly, knuckles pale.
“The dreams have started again,” he confessed. “Faces. A child. A woman’s voice humming.”
Dr. Navarro listened intently. “These might not be dreams, Xander. They could be memories. Suppressed. Fragmented.”
He looked down. “Then why do they feel like mine?”
She leaned forward gently. “Because part of you remembers. The mind doesn’t erase love, even when it tries.”
“What do I do?”
“We can try hypnotherapy. But I won’t lie—it might hurt. Memories don’t come back clean. You’ll feel them before you can understand them.”
His throat tightened. “I already feel like I’m breaking.”
“Then maybe it’s time to let it break,” she said softly. “Because what’s buried might be the part of you you’ve been trying to find.”
Hope’s Room – A Whisper in the Night
Belle watched her daughter sleep. Hope’s tiny chest rose and fell with the rhythm of innocence. Her small hand clutched a stuffed rabbit worn from too many hugs.
“She misses you,” Belle whispered into the quiet. “Even though she doesn’t understand why you're gone while standing in the same room.”
Her fingers trembled as she brushed back a curl. “You’d be so proud of her. She's strong. Kind. She believes in people. Just like you.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.
Back in her room, she picked up her pen again.
You used to sing to her, remember? Even when your voice cracked on the high notes.
You called her “Hopey” when you thought I wasn’t listening.
She said ‘Papa’ again today.
And I died again today.
Xander’s Study – A Journal, A Key
It was past midnight when Xander felt the pull—subtle, but strong.
He opened the bottom drawer of his study, fingers hesitating before touching the navy-blue journal hidden beneath files and dust.
The first page bore his handwriting, unmistakable.
To my future daughter, Hope. So she’ll know who her father was—before the world tried to break him.
He flipped through the pages like someone gasping for air.
“Day 3 – Her heartbeat’s steady. So is mine again.”
“Belle laughed today, real laughter. I want to bottle it and keep it with me always.”
“Hope doesn’t like watermelon. Belle pretended to be shocked and called her a traitor.”
“First word: Mama. I pouted. Belle cried. We laughed until we couldn't breathe.”
At the back was a folded letter.
To Hope,
One day you’ll ask how I fell in love with your mom.
The truth is, I didn’t fall—I walked straight into her and never looked back.
She’s the bravest person I know. And if ever I forget that, I hope you remind me—with your eyes, your laugh, your love.
I love you. Then. Now. Always.
– Papa
Xander closed the journal slowly, both hands now shaking. He pressed it to his chest.
And into the silence, barely audible, he whispered—
“She has my eyes.”
END OF CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- Writer
