My dad told me not to spend more than a few seconds looking at myself in the mirror, because “That’s still more time than anyone is going to spend looking at you.”

He wasn’t trying to be mean; he was trying to give me perspective. Still, even with such great advice, I used to find myself staring into the mirror for long periods of time. Not looking for pimples, or hairs out of place, but just wondering what it was like on the other side of the glass.

Was the person I saw just a reflection of me, or did they have their own life? What did they see on their side of the mirror? Did they see me, or was their reflection someone different? What did they see behind their mirror, in the area I could never see? I knew I would never get answers.

I don’t know when it started. I’ve never been one to notice subtle changes, but eventually they became too conspicuous to ignore.

First it was my reflection’s skin color. I say “my reflection’s skin color,” because it was not mine. It startled me. I felt faint until I looked down at my skin and saw it was unchanged. Then I saw those eyes. Not my eyes. Those couldn’t be my eyes.

Maybe the reflection I saw really was someone else in their own world. Maybe they were changing and I wasn’t. Maybe I was supposed to change with the reflection, but failed. Maybe I needed to change.

But that can’t be. I couldn’t change into that if I wanted to, which I don’t, but if I did…

I know I’ve never seen that forest before, I’d never trade my horns for that hair, and I don’t even own a white nightgown.