Desiree Dul -

The reflection shook its head slowly. Then it pressed a phantom hand against the inside of the glass—and the glass cracked.

That night, she stood in her sterile apartment—white walls, gray rug, a single succulent on the sill—and stared into the black glass. The reflection was no longer mimicking her. It was living. Dancing. Tearing open a bag of neon-pink chips. Laughing with a mouth full of crumbs. desiree dul

The reflection pointed at her, then at the world beyond the window: the city lights, the distant thrum of a late-night train, a couple arguing on the sidewalk below. The reflection shook its head slowly

She put the mirror in her bag.

Dee felt herself thinning, becoming a photograph, a whisper, a Dul . The reflection stepped forward, solid and electric, wearing her indigo hair and her red scarf and her name like a stolen coat. The reflection was no longer mimicking her

“What do you want?” Desirée asked.

The reflection’s lips moved, but no sound came from the glass. Instead, a sensation bloomed in Desirée’s throat: hunger . Not for food. For noise. For color. For the sharp bite of a winter wind and the sting of a slap and the taste of cheap red wine drunk from the bottle at two in the morning.