The air in the bar was getting thinner. It felt like we were at a high altitude. My chest was tight. I needed to check my appearance. I needed to see that I was still Leo. That my tie was straight. That I existed.
It’s a nervous tic of mine. When the world stops making sense, I look in a mirror. Mirrors don't lie. Mirrors are geometry. Light bounces, image reflects. Simple.
"I need to use the facilities," I mumbled.
I walked away from the booth, toward the bar. The Bartender watched me come. They stopped polishing the glass and placed it on the counter. It made a hollow clink.
I walked past them. I went to the large, gilded mirror that hung behind the rows of liquor bottles.
Usually, this mirror reflects the warm, amber glow of the pub. It reflects my face—pale, anxious, wire-rimmed glasses, sharp jawline.
I gripped the edge of the bar. I looked up.
I didn't see the bar.
I didn't see the red emergency lights.
And I didn't see me.
The reflection was dark, but it wasn't the darkness of a room. It was the darkness of a storm.
In the mirror, it was raining. Hard, stinging rain that slashed sideways.
I saw a man standing there. But he wasn't wearing my Italian suit. He was wearing a soaked gray windbreaker. His hair was plastered to his skull. He wasn't standing in a bar.
He was standing on a ledge.
Behind him, I saw the blurry lights of city traffic. I saw black water churning far, far below. He was gripping a cold, wet metal railing. His knuckles were white.
The man in the mirror looked terrified. He was shivering violently. He was crying.
I raised my hand to touch my face.
In the mirror, the man raised his hand. But he didn't touch his face. He reached out toward the empty air, toward the drop.
I opened my mouth to scream, and in the reflection, the man opened his mouth.
"Don't," the reflection mouthed.
It wasn't a reflection. It was a window.
I wasn't looking at myself. I was looking at Adam.
And he wasn't at a funeral. He wasn't in a hospital.
He was on the bridge.
"Guys," I croaked. My voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like it tore my throat apart. "Guys... look."
Desi and Greg walked up behind me. I saw them in the mirror, too. But they didn't look like themselves.
Behind the Adam-figure in the mirror, I saw faint, ghostly shapes hovering in the rain. A swirling red mist that looked like Desi. A heavy, gray shadow that looked like Greg.
"Is that..." Desi whispered. She sounded like a little girl.
"It's him," Greg said. "He's going to jump."
"He's not waiting for us to start the party," I said, staring into Adam's terrified eyes—my eyes. "We aren't in a bar, Desi. We're in his head."
The man in the mirror looked down at the black water. He took a deep breath. His foot shifted, inching closer to the edge.
"He's giving up," I said. "And if he falls... we fall with him."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.