When I look in the mirror, I see the other side. I see a woman not with locks of dark hair, but with the horns of the devil and the eyes of a saint.

I do not fear it. I don’t know why. Tales tell us of demons that kill and take, that will grab your soul from your body and drag it down with them to the pits of hell. But when I let my eyes fall down on it, what should be my reflection, all I see is a face that stares with curiosity, as if it sees me as different and strange as I see it.

Maybe from its perspective, I am the demon. Maybe it grew up hearing tales of creatures with bulging eyes and rubbery skin, hair tumbling from their skull like an infestation. Maybe that is why legends say it attacks. Maybe that is why instead, this one stares.

I do not pay it any mind. Every day, I take the rag and the cleaner up to the surface of the mirror and I wash. When I wipe the face I see, it wavers, but doesn’t vanish. It blinks slowly in confusion.

I let it be known that this reflection of mine—a reflection of me or not—is welcome. I do not hate it, or fear it. Perhaps we’ll cross paths one day, perhaps I’ll find myself in a world of demons, and we can shake hands and peer into eyes that aren’t forced to peer back at us.