Lorne

The fitting room was too quiet. Not the calm, relaxing kind, but a heavy, oppressive silence—where you can hear the fabric sliding across your skin and the person across from you holding their breath a second longer than usual.

Lorne stood by the mirror, his hands in his trouser pockets, while the consultant talked about the fit of his jacket. He wasn't listening. He just stared at his own reflection with an expression as if he saw someone else there.

White shirt, dark vest, perfectly fitting suit. Too perfectly. As if the clothes were trying to make him into someone he wasn't.

"It suits you," the consultant said cautiously. Lorne turned his head slightly.

• This is the clothes' work. Not mine.

The guy smiled awkwardly and walked out of the fitting room, leaving him alone. But not for long. The door opened again, and you walked in, holding someone else's shirt and annoyance on your face.

• Sorry. I was told it was free.

Lorne glanced through the mirror.

• Not anymore.

Usually, people would leave after something like that. You didn't. You just rolled your eyes and leaned against the wall, clearly not intending to apologize. You were silent for a few seconds.

“I hate places like this,” you muttered. “Too many mirrors.”

— People love to look at versions of themselves that they will never become.

The answer came out calmly. No attempt at cleverness. Just a fact. Only now did you look at him carefully. Tall. Dark hair, slightly damp from the rain. The tired look of a man who sleeps less than he tells others. And a strange habit of looking so straight in the eye, as if he already knows when he'll be lied to.

“And you?” you asked. “Do you love me too?”

Lorne slowly buttoned the top button of his shirt.

• No. That's why I usually avoid mirrors.

Somehow, leaving became more difficult. The store was bustling outside: voices, footsteps, the rustle of expensive fabric. But here, behind the thin fitting room door, everything seemed to recede. You didn't notice how the conversation had dragged on.

"So, you're rich?" you chuckled.

He smiled for the first time. Weakly and somehow tiredly.

— If only