The Crossing of the Mirror

Ordinary Days, Silent Secrets

The alarm rang at six thirty in the morning, persistent like every other day. I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the weight of sleep still clinging to me, and stared at the bedroom ceiling. Sunlight slipped timidly through the gap in the curtain, illuminating half the wall. Everything looked exactly the way it was supposed to be.

Routine has that power: it makes us believe that nothing will ever change.

I got up lazily, walked to the bathroom, and tied my blonde hair into a simple ponytail. While brushing my teeth, I thought about the Marine Biology class I had that day. The professor had promised to talk about deep ocean zones — places that almost no one sees, but that exist nonetheless.

I always liked that idea.

In the kitchen, my mother was already ready to leave. She wore a light-colored blouse, her brown hair neatly tied back, glasses resting on her nose as she scrolled through her phone. The table was set, as always.

-Are you going to eat? she asked, without looking up.

-I'll grab something on the way,I replied.

She nodded, took a sip of coffee, and finally looked at me.

-Don't come home late today. I have a meeting at the school and I'm leaving earlier.

-Okay.

That was how things were between us. Short, functional conversations. We didn't fight, but we didn't go much beyond that either. I grabbed my backpack and left before the silence stretched too far.

He was already at the bus stop when I arrived.

Leaning against the pole, backpack slung over one shoulder, he watched the sky intently, as if searching for something specific among the clouds. I smiled to myself.

-I bet you're thinking about stars, even in broad daylight, I said.

He turned toward me, smiling slightly.

-You can always think about them. Even when you can't see them.

-Astronomy has made you poetic.

Or maybe it was you, he replied, laughing.

We got on the bus and sat together, as always. The ride was long enough for us to talk without rushing. He told me about a practical class he'd have later, about constellations and star maps. He spoke with enthusiasm, gesturing as he explained, and I liked listening even though I didn't understand half the terms.

-And you? he asked. Excited to talk about fish all day?

-They're not just fish, I shot back. They're entire ecosystems.

Hidden worlds.

-You always say that, he commented. Like you're sure there's something beyond what we can see.

I shrugged.

-Maybe there is.

We got off together at the university. We walked side by side to the main entrance, where our paths split. His building was on the other side of campus.

-I'll see you later, he said, holding my hand for a few seconds.

-See you, I replied, smiling.

Classes dragged on. Notes, explanations, the distant sound of conversations echoing through the hallways. During the break, I sat near an aquarium in the department building and watched the fish swimming in circles. The water distorted everything inside. They looked different, almost unreal.

Maybe everyone looks like that when observed too closely.

I returned home in the late afternoon. My mother was already there, sitting at the living room table, reviewing some papers.

-How was college? she asked.

-Normal, I replied. And the school?

-Tiring, as always.

We stayed silent for a few seconds. Then she looked at me more closely.

-You've been looking thoughtful lately.

-Just tired.

She seemed to accept the answer, but there was something in her eyes. As if she wanted to say more — or hide something.

-If you need me... she began, then stopped. Well, you know.

I nodded.

That night, I went to my room with the strange feeling that, despite everything seeming normal, there was something unspoken between us.

Something that lived in the silences, in the pauses, in the looks that lasted longer than they should.

My life went on, ordinary. College, a relationship, home.

But I didn't know yet that some ordinary days are only the beginning