MIRROR MIRROR

She told the truth. Not because it helped—but because she couldn’t not

People reacted to her on sight. Some leaned in for her wit; others recoiled from the blunt edge of her tongue. She met both with the same cool regard. Judgments were an even trade.

Her speech was quick, compressed, a kind of private shorthand. To outsiders it looked sharp, sometimes cruel. To those who stayed, it was precision—truth without ornament.

From childhood she carried more opinions than companions. Still, people sought her out. They wanted verdicts no one else would deliver—on clothes, on choices, on love. She offered them without hesitation, and for a brief spell, she became indispensable.

Later, she tried the discipline of silence. In polite rooms she folded her words, let them swell inside her. But they never stayed buried. They burst out at odd angles, scattering wreckage in their wake.

She remained, always, a figure drawn in bold lines—half-admired, half-feared. A portrait sketched in candor, with just enough shadow to keep people looking twice.