They bought me when they first moved in, the first week of their marriage.
“It’s beautiful! I have always wanted a vintage full-length mirror like this,” His wife twirled before me, all smiles and excited.
Her husband approved. Although he did not find me beautiful at all, he just found her beautiful in the reflection that I gave.
At home, her husband stood me in a corner of their living room.
The first night, I watched them as they slumped down into a newly-bought couch soon after they had finished arranging their things, finally settling in a house of their own. I watched as they sighed in relief, engulfed each other in an embrace, and consumed their love in the living room before a bottle of wine.
I watched them into their marriage.
They would eat every breakfast in a haste. She cooks pancakes. He takes a bite, sips on his coffee, hurries his way to office; she fixes her tie, he kisses her forehead, they bid goodbye every breakfast only to go home to each other every dinner.
During the weekends, the only time they’re at home for a whole day, they would spend iddle and cozy mornings in the sofa, and snuggle in each other’s arms. They would smile, talk, laugh, watch the TV, and then cuddle their way to the afternoon.
On the third year, they had their first huge fight. They didn’t spend a weekend morning sitting in the sofa. They spent it fighting. She rumbled how he was growing distant. He rumbled how she was so needy.
They fought every weekends. Until it became every weekdays. Cozy mornings grew into raging wars. The talking, laughing, and cuddling grew into yelling, and crying, and cursing at each other.
Before that year ended, they had another huge fit. He wanted a divorce. She threw punches at him, crying. He got fed up, pushed her away until she accidentally clashed at me.
My entire body ached for my collapse. Slowly, every piece of me shattered in the cold tiled floor.
“No! It was my favorite mirror!” She gasped in horror.
She knelt before my broken pieces. She was still as beautiful as the first time she gave me her reflection. Only that the sparkle in her eyes was now replaced with weariness.
Behind her, I wish she saw her husband attempting to hold her back, afraid she might hurt herself.
“We can still patch it up. We can still mend it whole.” She cried when he began sweeping my pieces away.
“No,” he said with forced intrepidity.
“What do you want me to do?! I loved it! I had it for years! It’s not like I can just buy a new mirror.”
She had began crying that she did not see the utmost sincerity and concern in his eyes — it was what he held for her the first time I saw them, on the years that proceeded that, and until now. He had always cared for her. I think he still does. He would never want her hurt.
“It had already been broken. You’ll only hurt yourself trying to keep it whole.”
He proceeded cleaning my pieces on the floor. He turned away, but before completely leaving to throw me away, continued —
“Yes, you can just buy a new mirror.”
That was the last time I saw the married couple.
