The bathroom was quiet, too quiet—silent in a way that made Elliot's own breathing sound louder than it should, the faint rasp of air moving through his dry throat almost intrusive in the stillness. The walls, lined with faded white tiles, reflected the dim yellow glow of the lone bulb overhead, and every flicker of that light made shadows dance along the edges of the mirror like restless spirits. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and soap—sterile, clean, and cold, nothing like the warmth of the stage lights he hid under night after night. He stood barefoot on the cool linoleum, staring at the sink where water still dripped in uneven intervals, each drop punctuating the silence like a distant metronome, like the ticking of time that wouldn't let him forget how much of it had passed since the fire, how much of it he'd wasted trying to pretend nothing had changed. His hands hovered over the edges of the sink, trembling—not violently, but enough for him to notice, enough to remind him that he wasn't in control, that he hadn't been for a long time now. Slowly, almost ritualistically, he reached up and tugged at the strands of blonde hair framing his face, fingertips grazing synthetic fibers that felt smooth and alien against his skin. The wig shifted slightly under his touch, revealing for a split second the raw truth beneath—the patchy, uneven scalp where only a few stubborn tufts of hair had managed to grow back, the ridges of scar tissue that curved up toward the crown of his head. He flinched and fixed the wig instinctively, as if even the mirror might recoil at what lay beneath. It was stupid, really; there was no one else here. No audience, no cameras, not even Chance or Two Time or Noob to see him like this. And yet shame gripped him tighter than any spotlight ever had, a choking kind of shame that lived in his ribs and pressed down until he couldn't stand up straight.

He hated mirrors. He hated that they always showed too much—every imperfection, every reminder of the boy he used to be and the man he'd become. But still, he couldn't stop looking. It was masochistic, this ritual of staring at his reflection until his chest hurt, until his breathing went uneven and his thoughts spiraled into the same loop. He hated the way his skin puckered along the side of his face, burned deep enough that no amount of makeup could smooth it completely. He hated the way the wig never sat right, the way it shifted when he danced too hard, the way he always had to wonder if anyone noticed. He hated the makeup, the thick layers that made him itch under hot stage lights, the sting when sweat leaked into half-healed wounds. Most of all, he hated the silence that followed performances—the stillness of home, when the screaming crowds and flashing lights were replaced by nothing but the echo of his own thoughts.

You're not the same, a voice in his head whispered—not cruel, not loud, but insistent. You're not what they want anymore.

He pressed his palms to the sink, knuckles whitening, trying to drown out the whisper. But the mirror betrayed him.

Because behind him, in the reflection, stood someone else.

The boy was leaning casually against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, posture radiating effortless confidence. Same height, same face—almost. The scars were gone, the wig nonexistent. "His" hair, once thick and vibrant, caught the dim light and gleamed like ink. "His" eyes were bright, cunning, alive in a way Elliot's hadn't been in a long time. "He" was smiling—not kindly, not sympathetically, but in a way that sliced through Elliot like a knife. The smile of someone who knew exactly where to press to make it hurt most.

"Long night?" the hallucination asked, voice warm and mocking all at once. "Or should I say... long life?"

Elliot squeezed his eyes shut. "Go away."

"Can't," the boy said easily, stepping forward in the mirror. "You made me. Or maybe I made you. Hard to say anymore."

Elliot opened his eyes, staring down at the sink, refusing to meet the boy's gaze. "You're not real."

"Neither are you," the hallucination countered, voice echoing something it had said once before in the rehearsal room. "At least, not up there. Not on stage. That's not you. That's... someone else. Someone plastic. Someone they told you to be."

Elliot's grip on the sink tightened until his nails dug into porcelain. "Shut up."

"Why?" The reflection tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Does it hurt hearing the truth?"

The mirror Elliot circled behind him—not physically, but in the reflection, steps impossibly silent—and rested ghostly hands on his shoulders. "Remember what it felt like? Standing under those lights without hiding? Singing without worrying about your face, your hair, your scars? God, you used to love it. You used to be alive."

"I'm still alive."

"Barely." The boy's voice softened, almost pitying. "Look at you. Hiding in bathrooms at four in the morning, rehearsing until you collapse, gluing someone else's hair to your head just to feel whole. Does that feel alive to you?"

Elliot's throat tightened. "I didn't ask for this."

"Neither did I." The hallucination's smile faltered for the first time, replaced by something sharp and raw. "I didn't ask to burn."

The words hit harder than they should have. Elliot's breath caught, chest aching. He looked up, finally meeting those too-bright eyes in the mirror.

"I'm trying," Elliot whispered, voice cracking. "I'm doing everything I can."

"I know," the boy said simply. "But is it for you... or for them?"

The question lingered in the air like smoke, curling around Elliot's ribs, seeping into his lungs until he couldn't breathe. He hated it. Hated how much weight it carried. Hated that he didn't know the answer.

The hallucination leaned closer in the mirror, lips brushing against Elliot's ear though no one stood behind him. "You could let go, you know," "he" murmured. "You don't have to keep pretending. You don't have to keep killing yourself for them."

Elliot squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently. "Stop."

"You could be me again," the boy whispered, softer now, almost coaxing. "Cheerful. Untouchable. Before the fire. Before the lies."

"I said stop!"

Elliot slammed his fist into the sink, the sound reverberating painfully in the small space. The hallucination vanished in an instant, the mirror showing only Elliot—pale, trembling, breath ragged. His wig sat crooked now, strands falling limply over his brow. He stared at himself, at the stranger he'd become, and felt something inside him crack.

The silence returned. Deafening.

He leaned forward, forehead pressed to the cold glass of the mirror, eyes stinging. He didn't cry—not really. He never let himself. But the burn in his throat was enough.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. The faucet dripped steadily.