He looks into the mirror. He looks down at his hands. He looks back up. Then down again. He examines the lines in his palms, the creases and wrinkles. He looks at the little nicks and cuts and tiny scars from a lifetime of clumsy accidents. He looks up at the mirror and doesn't recognize who he sees. 

He lies in bed. His eyes are open. His mind races in the dark. He'll sleep soon, but not before his thoughts turn to the person beside him, already asleep. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take hold. Not long now, he thinks. 

He is at work. He is restless. He didn't sleep well. He chats with coworkers. He wonders if they could ever guess what he's thinking. He goes into the bathroom and stares into the mirror for a little too long. His eyes are red. He blows his nose. 

He meets her at the bus stop. He walks with her, but doesn't hold her hand. His hands are in his pockets. He thinks. He stutters. She confesses. She tells her what she feels. She is scared. She hurts. She doesn't know what to do. But she's not hiding anymore. 

She sits on the couch. She is nervous. She figits. She takes a deep breath. She speaks. She explains. She hopes.

She is at the store. She is self-conscious. She sees everyone's eyes staring. She walks the aisles. She sees all the pretty things. She see things she likes. She doesn't buy anything. 

She sits at the desk. She mumbles her words. She speaks clearly. She is relieved. She goes into the bathroom and stares into the mirror for a little too long. She is fascinated with who she sees.

She lies in bed. She thinks back to the person who used to be there. She thinks about the day before and the day after. She waits for sleep to take hold.

She looks into the mirror. She looks down and examines the creases and lines. She looks back up. She applies mascara and eyeliner. She puts on lipstick. She looks into the mirror and smiles.