Nikko

The mirror in front of me felt cruel.

Not because it reflected something ugly.

Because it reflected me.

My hands stayed frozen against the fabric at my sides, fingers gripping the soft material like I was waiting for lightning to strike through the ceiling and split the room apart.

A skirt.

A simple skirt.

Dark fabric that reached below my knees, paired with clothes my friend had practically shoved into my arms after twenty minutes of arguing and thirty more of me saying absolutely not.

I couldn't even look at myself properly.

My eyes kept darting away.

To the floor.

To the wall.

Anywhere but there.

"...You look beautiful."

I nearly choked.

My head snapped toward him so fast I thought my neck would crack.

"I look blasphemous."

The words escaped immediately.

Too quickly.

Too naturally.

As if they'd already been sitting in my throat long before today.

I lowered my gaze, clutching the fabric tighter.

God would send me to hell just for this.

For standing here.

For wanting this.

For liking it.

"This isn't right."

Silence.

Not the heavy silence I expected.

Not disappointment.

Not pity.

Just... quiet.

Then—

"...Nikko." His voice softened. "It's a skirt, not a sin. Just a piece of clothes."

My chest tightened.

Just clothes.

Just clothes.

Then why did it feel like standing on the edge of a cliff?

Why did I feel like one step forward would change everything?

I looked back at the mirror.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

The person staring back looked nervous.

Terrified, even.

His shoulders were stiff.

His face looked red.

But...

I stared.

And stared.

Then stared some more.

Because somewhere beneath the panic and guilt and years of this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong—

There was something else.

Something small.

Something warm.

Something that made my chest ache.

Because for the first time in a while...

I didn't feel like I was wearing someone else's reflection.