I remember when she first brought me home. She hugged me as if I might disappear if she didn’t hold tight enough. My fur was new and soft, and every night she would press her cheek against it before falling asleep. Back then, her world was bright and simple.

She told me everything.  “I hope Emma sits next to me tomorrow,” she whispered once.

Another night it was, “If the monster comes out, you’ll protect me, right?” or “When I’m famous, you can come with me everywhere.” 

Across the room stood her mirror. I could see it clearly from the bed. Every morning she climbed onto a little stool and stared at her reflection while holding her hair brush: sometimes to brush her hair, but usually just to sing with. She loved to make the silliest faces. Crossed eyes. Puffed cheeks. Sometimes she’d glance over at me as if to say: Did you see that!?

I moved to the bookshelf as she grew older.

Still, she reached for me on certain nights– the bad ones. Friendship fights. Family arguments. The slow, confusing ache of loving someone who didn’t love her back. On those nights, she would press her face into my fur while her shoulders shook. I could feel the warmth of her tears soaking into the same fabric that once held her laughter. Those nights were long. But we got through them together.

Until the night something changed.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her phone glowing in the dark. The room was lit only by that pale blue light and the faint reflection in the mirror across from us. I watched her eyes move across the screen again and again.

Her brow tightened. “I know what happened,” she whispered.

Another message appeared.

She threw the phone onto the bed and buried her face into a pillow. A muffled scream escaped her as her body curled in tight like a little baby. For a moment, I thought she would reach for me like she used to. But she didn’t.

Instead, when she finally stood, she walked slowly to the mirror. The blue light caught her face as she looked at her reflection. And I saw something there that did not belong to my old friend.

In the nights that followed, I expected more tears. She used to cry easily– over scraped knees, sad stories, and movies where the dog didn’t make it home.

But she didn’t cry. Her voice grew sharper. Faster. Sometimes, I watched her stand in front of the mirror, practicing expressions. A bored look. A cutting smile. A laugh that sounded more harsh than kind.

Tonight, she’s practicing a cunning smile in the mirror. She studies it carefully, adjusting it until it looks just right. As I watch from the shelf, untouched and forgotten, I realize something– once, she used to cry to me because the world was cruel to her. Now, she’s learning how to return the favor. 

I’m scared. She’s getting very good at it.