I can see myself reflected on all sides as I hold onto the barré, my leg extended straight out to the side, my toes pointed towards the window on the left side of the room. Over and over I see my face, my arms, my hands.

All my life there’s been mirrors. Mirrors in the ballet studio, mirrors on the bathroom sink. The mirror on my bedroom wall. Wherever I go, I see myself—pale, skinny, tired looking, but there.

So of course, when it ended, it would have to be in front of a mirror. I locked eyes with a girl I did not know, a girl on the other side of the glass, as I pulled the blade hard across my wrist. I never took my eyes off of her as I swallowed the pills: one, two, three, four, five…

I pressed my hand up against hers, hoping to feel some of the warmth of a friend against my hand, but it was smooth and cool. Just another mirror. Just another reflection of someone I don’t know.

So when it faded to black…the mirror was the last thing I saw.
And I slipped away, until all it showed was emptiness.