Running Low

New Mirror

      Hi, I'm Ace. You might remember me from yesterday. Well, I left a little early. There's another part to the story I want to tell you.
      Last you heard, I'd hugged Azalea. That's her name, by the way.
      When she finally left the hug, she threatened me. That sounds crazy, but you don't understand. And that's just it, now, I do.
      For starters, she spoke my name.
      My name was on her lips, and it sounded right.
      And then there was the lack of violent fire in her voice, the lack of aggression in her tone. Even the playful spark had died. Her voice sounded whispery.
      Weak.
      Now, I don't know about you, but I've never heard of a weak Azalea. And yet again, you may call me stupid, but I can't help it! She has this effect on me. Like... like I'm someone new around her, not myself.
      No, I'm more myself.
      Anyway, I followed her. I know, I'm an idiot, following a girl into her bedroom when she's clearly upset. But that's just it. She doesn't deserve to be upset.
      Truth be told, I'm left standing in the same spot for a while, remembering the hug, her arms around my back, her head buried in my shoulder, before I actually walk after her.
      I back up against a wall to let Lyssia walk down the hall, having left the shared room and then I walk in the opposite direction to her.
      A smashing sound and a shatter and a clatter as pieces fall to the floor. I wait for the noise to settle and charge in. I shouldn't have waited, I know that now, but that's what fear makes you do, I guess.
      I swing the door open, slowly, carefully. "Lea," I start before I see the state she's in. Crouched on the floor, glass in her hand, blood dripping on the floor. "Let go of that!" I speak softly but it's still a call of panic.  She looks up at me suddenly, a look that could kill washing over her face.
      But it wasn't me that it threatened to kill.
      I couldn't let her do this to herself. I put my hands on her shoulders and got her to stand. I pry open her hand that had closed into a fist defensively and brush the glass from her hand.
      For a minute, we stand there.
      Her head hung low, facing the floor, staring at the backs of her eyelids, tears falling slowly.
      Drip. Drop. Drip.
      My right hand holding her bleeding one and my left hand gently lifting her chin, tipping her head up, forcing her eyes to meet mine.
      "If you don't like what the mirror shows you," I start. Now get ready, I still can't believe I said this. "Look at me instead. You look perfect in my eyes." Really cringy move, which is even more proof she's not doing great.
      She didn't mock me.
      And I found myself wishing she would.