A Mirror's Whisper

In a small, dimly lit room, I stand — before me, an old mirror, a silent guardian of forgotten paths. This mirror, with its frame of faded gold, feels less like an object, more... a portal to another time. I gaze into it, my eyes tracing the familiar lines, contours — the etchings of life on my face.

But what greets me is startling — a man in the glass, resembling me, yet unmistakably different. Younger, his eyes alive with a fire, long extinguished in mine; his face, free, unburdened by the heavy cloak of regrets, 'what-ifs' that I wear. Behind him, the room vibrates with life, echoing with the sounds of laughter, daring adventures — in stark contrast to my muted existence.

I reach out, sigh... my fingers grazing the cool, unyielding surface of the mirror. It feels like a barrier, tangible as the years gone by. The image... it's haunting, a cruel reminder of a life that might have been mine, gasp, had I chosen differently, walked down unexplored paths. For a moment, a deep longing washes over me, an ache for that uncharted journey...

Then, sharp intake of breath, the reflection shifts. The man in the mirror ages, his youth replaced by my familiar weariness; the room behind him dims, succumbing to the reality I know... heavy sigh. I step back, my throat tight, heart weighed down by a mix of wonder, deep sorrow. The mirror, once a window to what might have been, is just a mirror again. And I... am left with the haunting image of a life not lived, 'what ifs' echoing, resounding in my soul.

In that brief, fleeting encounter... whisper... I saw a ghost — my own specter, a reflection of a journey never taken, on the vast, unending sea of life’s possibilities. And as I turn away, the punchline hits me hard — in the mirror of life, sometimes the greatest reflection is not of who we are, but of who we chose not to be.