Puddle-Self

He leaned into the brick like the wall might remember him if no one else did. Night pressed in from all sides, the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful, just empty enough to echo. The hood was up, not to hide, but to hold the thoughts in place. If he let them spill, they might run down the street and never come back.
The puddle at his feet had no right to be so honest.
It caught him whole — the slouch, the angle of waiting, the pause between breaths. The reflection looked steadier than he felt, as if that version of him knew something he didn’t. In the water, he stood straighter. In the water, he didn’t look like someone deciding whether to stay or go.
A light flickered above, humming like it had opinions but no solutions. Brick, tile, shadow — everything layered, nothing smooth. He counted the lines in the wall, the seconds between passing cars, the reasons he hadn’t left yet. None of them were strong. All of them were enough.
He thought about how reflections don’t argue. They don’t interrupt. They just show up and say, this is what you look like right now. Not who you are. Not who you were meant to be. Just right now.
A drop of water fell from somewhere unseen and broke the image. His face fractured, doubled, then settled again. He watched it happen without flinching. Maybe that was the practice — learning not to panic when you break and reform.
He shifted his weight. The brick stayed cold. The puddle stayed patient.
For a moment — brief, dangerous — he imagined stepping forward, walking through the reflection, letting the night close behind him like a door that didn’t need slamming. Instead, he stayed. Hands in pockets. Breath steady. Still here.
The puddle held him one last time before the light buzzed louder, before the night moved on. And when he finally pushed away from the wall, the reflection went with him — thinner, shakier, but intact.
Somehow, that was enough to take the next step.

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Word count: 329

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫