A Pack of Light

THE MIRROR DOESN'T LIE

Episode 7: The Mirror Doesn’t Lie

The women’s comfort room on the third floor of the Liberal Arts Building had always been a place of whispers, retouching, last-minute cram reading, and quick sanity checks between classes. But today, it was almost empty. Just the humming of the broken exhaust fan and the occasional squeak of rubber soles.

I was leaning over the sink, trying to fix my eyeliner that had smudged just slightly under my right eye. That small, stupid smudge was bothering me more than it should have. Maybe because it was the only thing I could fix today.

Leah came in, her presence immediately filling the space with that unfiltered energy only she carried. She caught her reflection and turned slightly to the side, sucking in her stomach in front of the mirror.

“Do I look fat to you?” she asked casually, like she was asking about the weather.

I blinked. “What?”

She placed her hands on her hips and squinted at her figure. “I’ve gained like five pounds since sem break. My jeans are betraying me.”

I laughed softly, turning toward her. “You look fine.”

“Fine,” she repeated with a sigh. “That’s the problem. Fine is one notch below pretty. I wanna look—” she paused, waving a hand at me. “—like you. You’re all slim and model-y and... just perfect.”

I lowered my gaze, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Perfect?

“You don’t want my body, Leah,” I said quietly. “Trust me. It comes with a price.”

She tilted her head, confused. “Girl, I’d kill for your waist. And your collarbone? Sharp enough to slice a lemon. Look at me. I look like I swallowed a life vest.”

I gave her a small smile, but it faded quickly. I knew she was joking. But I also knew she didn’t know what she was saying.

I turned back to the mirror, fixing the crooked strand of my wig tucked awkwardly behind my ear. Even now, months after the treatment, I hadn’t gathered the courage to leave it behind. It felt like a mask I couldn’t let go of, one that kept people from looking too closely.

Leah came beside me and leaned closer to the mirror, studying my face—not with vanity, but with something softer.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a while.

I tensed. “I know.”

“No, not in a bad way,” she added quickly. “I mean... there’s something gentler now. Your skin’s brighter, your eyes softer. And your hair,” she touched a strand that had peeked out from under the wig, “it’s growing back. Healthy. Like baby hair.”

I shook my head. “It’s short. It’s ugly.”

“It’s real.”

Her words hit me harder than I expected. I turned my face away, but not fast enough.

She saw it.

The insecurity. The exhaustion. The quiet grief I carried like second skin.

“Izz,” she said softly, “I didn’t mean to—”

I reached up and pulled the wig off.

It slid down without resistance, revealing my uneven, thin hair underneath. Patches of scalp peeked through. The texture was strange—neither curly nor straight, but wild and confused.

Leah’s mouth opened slightly. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

“And this,” I said as I unbuttoned the top half of my shirt, revealing my chest—flat, scarred, hollow. Two shallow dents where my breasts used to be, a pale roadmap of what cancer took.

The air in the restroom shifted. The buzzing fan seemed louder. Even the walls seemed to retreat in silence.

Tears blurred my vision, but I kept talking.

“You want my body?” I whispered. “You want this?” I ran a trembling hand over the uneven skin. “This isn't perfect, Leah. This is survival. This is what they don’t show in recovery posters.”

Her eyes were red now. She stepped forward, slowly, like I was something sacred and fragile. With shaking hands, she reached up and gently buttoned back my shirt.

Not a word.

Not a sound.

Just her fingers moving carefully, respectfully, like she was helping a child dress after a nightmare.

She then picked up my wig from the sink and placed it gently back on my head, adjusting it with such care I almost sobbed.

When she was done, she looked me in the eyes, hers swimming in tears.

“It’s not the best,” she whispered, voice breaking. “But the worst is over. And it’s gonna get better from here on. Everything’s gonna be better.”

I let the silence sit between us. Heavy. Raw. Honest.

Then I broke.

My tears spilled without shame, without apology. Leah pulled me into her arms and I collapsed into her, finally allowing myself to be held.

There in that cold restroom, with its flickering lights and cracked tiles, I grieved everything cancer had taken. Not just my body. But my self-image. My girlhood. My laughter. My normal.

“I’m tired of pretending,” I cried into her shoulder. “Tired of acting like I’m okay. Like I’m not mourning every inch of myself.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” Leah whispered. “Not ever.”

We stood like that for minutes. Maybe more. Time blurred.

And when we finally pulled apart, she cupped my face and smiled through her tears.

“You’re still you,” she said. “Still Isabelle. Still beautiful. Just braver now.”

I didn’t believe her yet.

But for the first time in a long time, I wanted to try.