I often choose not to look into mirrors because I am afraid of what will stare back

I wonder at what point the string holding the green-framed mirror in my apartment’s hallway decided to fall apart. I wasn’t home. When I returned, I found that the five-foot long rectangular piece gifted to me years ago by my then upstairs’ neighbour, Jyoti, had surrendered to gravity. It seemed still whole from above, but I investigated and discovered the splintered fragments nestled halfway down. My maid and I cleaned this crime scene with wet newspaper. The rest of the day was wrapped in a lingering sense of absence. Each time I would pass from my living room towards either the kitchen or my bedroom, I would expect to see myself reflected. Instead, there was just a blank wall. I didn’t experience the absence as a lack. In fact, I was relieved by the luxury of no longer being mirrored. It felt symbolic that such a precipice moment should transpire a few days before I officially turn 32.