Unlabeled 🌈

The Bathroom mirror

Chapter Seven

The bathroom mirror is the worst kind of enemy—it doesn’t lie, but it doesn’t tell the truth either.

I lean against the sink, fluorescent light buzzing overhead like it’s mocking me. My reflection stares back, blurred at the edges, almost unfamiliar. Hair too short to pass for feminine, jawline too soft to pass for masculine. Clothes hanging somewhere in the in-between, like they can’t make up their mind either.

I tilt my head. Try to see myself the way others might. Girl. Boy. Confused. Freak. All the words I’ve heard echo around the frame of glass.

I mouth the word she. It feels sticky, foreign, like gum clinging to the bottom of a shoe. Then I try he. My chest tightens, not in a bad way, but in a way that feels dangerous, like a secret I’m not supposed to touch. Then, quietly, almost a whisper: they.

For a moment, something inside me exhales.

And then the door creaks open. A classmate steps in, giving me a weird look before disappearing into a stall. I straighten, adjust my hoodie, pretend I wasn’t talking to myself. Pretend I wasn’t pulling my own identity apart and trying on the pieces like outfits.

When I leave, I avoid the mirror’s gaze. Because the truth is, I’m not sure who’s looking back.

But maybe—just maybe—that’s okay.