Broken Reflections
- Writers Pouch
- Feb 15, 2025
- 5 min read
Updated: Apr 8
Peering at me like she wanted to climb into me and hide herself from the world, Maaya stated, “Whoever said eyes are windows to the soul clearly never saw you!”
They say I am cold, that my silvery depth is evil. But I find them frightening. Of all the living things in this world, it is Humans who scare me.
“Dull eyes that no eyeliner can fix,” she complained as she dipped the little spindly stick into the cold black liquid before carefully lining the curve of her eyelid. Every day I watch her, berating what she saw in me. They call me cruel, unkind, and unforgiving. But I only show what I see.
Her eyes were of almond shape. I heard that comparison play out as a song on the old radio and found it fitting for her. She is an old soul trapped in a new body, with a repaired octogenarian radio still shining on her wooden table. Her mother’s old sarees worked into patchwork quilts stuck to her walls, her father’s old clock proudly ticking on the side. All her possessions were always in a neat little decor project around her. She calls it home. And sometimes, most times, I feel my silver melt when I see the way she touches, no, caresses her objects with care.
