• I sit in my room, my back against the cold wall. I hear your door close. Then, I hear the voice from your visitor. You come and ask me for a mirror. You go right back to your room and lock the door. I hear the slight sound of metal hitting and scraping against glass, or what seems to be the mirror you just asked for. I hear you and your visitor sniffling and sneezing. Seems like you are blowing your nose, but I know otherwise.

    You think you’re so smart, the way you hide it in your stuff, thinking I won’t go through your room when you leave. But I do and I find it. I get rid of the evidence and you never bother to ask. I hate that you tried to keep it from me even though I already knew.

    It hurt me when a stranger told me and not you. It haunts me to know that you keep things from me for years before confessing when I ask. You think I don’t know. I wish I didn’t. But I’m glad I do, so you can’t hide from me any longer.