CHAPTER 16: EMOTIONALITY OVER, THE END OF ROMANCE
***
One step, then another, and then another.
A foot emerged from the oppressive velvet shadows of the hallway, followed by the rest of a blonde girl whose movements were a jarring mix of grace and desperation.
She hurried through the narrow passage, her steps soft and muffled against the expensive carpet, yet the pace was frantic, driven by a private, internal deadline.
"Zack, Zack... where are you? Where were you?" Trizha whispered into the empty air, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "Come back here, to my room... I need you right now. I can't do this alone."
With every stride, her presence seemed to intensify.
One hand hung limp and pale at her side, while the other was clenched so tightly her knuckles threatened to pierce the skin.
The hallway light grew harsher, brighter, and more unforgiving as she approached the door to her makeup room—her sanctuary, her laboratory of lies.
The memories of yesterday began to bleed into the present, unbidden and sharp.
"What a coincidence," Zackier's voice echoed in the chambers of her mind, a phantom dialogue from twenty-four hours ago. "You asked the question I wanted to ask you myself... Where were you?"
Trizha remembered pacing the living room floor yesterday, her phone clutched like a lifeline, desperately dialing his number over and over.
「Where had he gone after the chaos of the Mirror House?」
It was a question that had gnawed at her ever since her disastrous attempt to reconnect with the internet.
"Zack, please... I don't want to hear riddles. I terribly need you right now," she had pleaded to the receiver.
"Shhh... calm down, darling," his voice had purred back, cool and collected.
Trizha finally reached her door and slipped inside.
She closed it with a slow, deliberate click, her hand lingering on the lock until she heard it snap into place.
She approached the vanity, her knees nearly giving out as she sank into the velvet-cushioned chair.
She stared into the large, silver-backed mirror, her reflection pale and ghostly in the ring light.
She reached for a brush, dipping it into a palette of fresh foundation, and began the ritual of the mask.
"I was leading you to my 'surprise' until you let go of my hand and blended into the crowd," Zackier's memory continued to whisper. "I guess it got delayed."
"I-I'm sorry—" she had stammered.
"No, no, don't. It was my fault for letting such beauty slip from my grasp. Say, how about a date in the early morning? We'll meet by the fountain, and there, I will show you my 'surprise.'"
Foundations.
Facial powders.
Brushes.
Eyeliners.
Every tool at her disposal was laid out like surgical instruments intended to hide a rotting wound.
Staring at herself, Trizha felt a flicker of genuine curiosity pierce through her fog.
「What surprise? What could Zackier possibly have planned for her today, of all days?」
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a small, clattering sound.
One of the brushes rolled across the marble tabletop and fell, landing on the floor with a soft thud.
Trizha looked down, her eyes tracking the fallen tool.
She hesitated for a long second, her hand hovering over the edge of the table before she leaned down to retrieve it.
But just as her fingertips brushed the bristles, a voice spoke—a voice so familiar it made the hair on her arms stand up.
"What are you doing?"
Trizha's eyes snapped wide.
She bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The room was empty, save for her, yet the voice had been crystal clear.
It was her own voice, but stripped of the "Influencer" lilt.
It was flat, weary, and accusing.
She looked into the mirror, and the world seemed to tilt.
There she was.
Not just a reflection, but a presence.
The physical details were identical—the hair, the eyes, the flamboyant outfit—but the expression was a world apart.
Trizha's own face was a mask of startled terror, but the Trizha in the mirror was blank, emotionless, and cold.
"Quit with the suppression," the reflection said, its lips moving in perfect, haunting synchronization with the words in Trizha's head. "I'm asking you a question. What are you doing here, caking on all this makeup and preparation? And for what? To satisfy the 'other'? Let me remind you: you're tired. Exhausted. Beyond your limit. Get some goddamn rest."
The words felt like physical blows.
Trizha stared, the surprise on her face slowly melting into a mixture of uncertainty and a deep, terrifying realization.
"Ah... is this what they call a 'sign of redemption'?" Trizha thought, her head tilting slightly as she studied her own ghost. "A psychological break down where the mind starts fractured conversations with itself. Right. She's just a delusion. A fragment of the 'real' me trying to claw its way out. This happens a lot in movies–"
"I know what you're thinking," the reflection stated flatly, cutting her off suddenly.
Trizha wasn't even surprised anymore.
She was a movie lover; she knew the tropes.
This was the forceful onset of a moral crisis, the subconscious demanding an audience.
She leaned in, her gaze turning serious, mirroring the intensity of the entity in the glass.
"Whether you know what I have in mind or not, that is none of your business," Trizha said, her voice dropping into a low, defensive growl.
"No, I'm pretty sure it is," the reflection countered. "It is my business. I've been waiting for this since day one. Tell me, Trizha: when are you finally going to stop masking yourself with a facade you never even wanted to wear?"
"As long as it keeps me sane," Trizha snapped.
"But you aren't sane," the mirror-self replied, its eyes narrowing. "You're just frantically acknowledging every obstacle that comes your way as if you're playing a game you've already lost."
"Acknowledgements?" Trizha let out a brittle laugh. "Well, part of that is true. But also... not."
"Tsk. Enough," the reflection said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just stop this and go to sleep. I'm not playing. I'm not kidding. You cried one minute, then you were laughing the next, and then you were back to sobbing. You're a wreck. Do you honestly think you won't break apart completely when the next tragedy hits?"
"Look at you," Trizha sneered, her confidence returning as her anger flared. "Acting, blabbering, yapping... acting like you understand everything just to tell me to stop. When in reality, you don't. You don't understand at all. I am moving on. And you—a delusion, a reflection, a fragmented illusion of my reality—you're still just sitting in that same chair, stuck in the past. Why don't you stay in the memories where you belong? Just like Wyne, you are also…
.
.
...Just another random add-on to my life."
.
.
The reflection visibly recoiled, its brow furrowing in confusion.
It almost scoffed, a dark chuckle escaping its lips at the sheer absurdity of the statement.
"Hah? What?" the mirror-self asked, shaking its head. "Me? An add-on? Trizha, you're literally talking about yourself—"
"No, I'm pretty sure..." Trizha interrupted.
She lifted her arm, her index finger pointing directly at the glass, aimed straight at the heart of the "other" Trizha.
Her gaze was cold and authoritative, looking down on the reflection as if it were a common beggar.
"...I'm pretty sure that I'm talking about you."
The reflection's eyes widened.
A single bead of sweat traced a path down its temple as a dramatic, crushing realization settled onto its face.
Trizha wasn't talking about her subconscious.
She wasn't talking about a "true self."
She had reached a level of dissociation so profound that she had decided to recklessly abandon her own identity.
She was discarding the "real Trizha" like a piece of outdated equipment.
"You... you're..." the reflection stammered.
"Messed up? Broken? I don't care," Trizha said, her voice like ice. "Like I said before: you stay here. In the mirror. In the dark."
She stood up firmly, towering over the reflection for a final, silent moment of dominance.
She turned her back on the mirror, preparing to leave the room.
But she froze in her tracks as the voice spoke one last time—not with anger, but with a terrifying, pitying softness.
"You're entirely mistaken... I am not an add-on. I am not a delusion. And I am certainly not the 'real' you."
Trizha's hand hovered over the doorknob.
"You don't even know me," the voice whispered, "and I'm afraid that you don't know 'You' either."
Trizha scoffed, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
She refused to let the words sink in.
She grabbed the handle, twisted it open with a violent jerk, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving the mirror—and whatever was inside it—behind.
And finally…