When did I become so old? The question hangs heavy, almost tangible, vibrating in the narrow space between my skin and the silence of the room. It is a terrifying, whispered betrayal. The woman who stares back at me from the cold glass of the mirror is a stranger—an intruder wrapped in my clothes, bearing lines carved by a life I barely recognize. Yet, beneath this crumbling shell, my spirit watches, astounded and untouched, refusing to age.

Clearly, the creature in the mirror is a lie. She is a prison warden, holding captive a girl who never agreed to grow up. Inside this tired, heavy bone-house, there is a pulse that still beats with the fierce, raw rhythm of unfulfilled dreams. My laughter belongs to a morning that refuses to end, a bright, innocent melody that mocks the gravity pulling at the corners of my mouth.

My smile is a paradox, much too young for the face it illuminates. It burns like a small, stubborn flame against the encroaching dark—a quiet defiance. Age is merely a mechanical trick, a number whispered by clocks that do not understand the eternity of the soul. The raw essence of who I am, the fierce hopes I clutch to my chest, and the vast, aching love I still have to give remain as sharp and dewdrenched as the first breath of dawn.

And then, the world recedes. In the quiet, holy moments when the noise of living fades to nothing, she breaks free. Unbound, naked in her truth, she dances. She moves to a secret, internal tune, a wild symphony that laughs at physics and mirrors alike. Within this fragile, breaking vessel dwells a terrifying, timeless beauty—a fierce, eternal spark that simply refuses to grow old.

© Beatriz Esmer