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Made of Something

Ezra catches his reflection, lit gently by the bulb’s halo behind him. He doesn’t move. The phone in his hand is just a placeholder, really. What grips him isn’t the screen—it’s the slow spill of memory that crests when everything else goes silent.

He’s thinking about her again. All of them, actually. Each face that’s looked at him like he was something rare. Not just adored, but understood—even the one who always kept half a step back, always moving like feelings were things best not touched too long. She had her moments, though. And in those moments, Ezra saw her look at him like he was made of something incandescent.

It’s not vanity. It’s bewilderment. What did they see?

He’s a man of small rituals. Coffee just the way he likes it. The quiet thrill of skate wheels against pavement. His words, measured and refined like pages from a novel no one else is reading yet. And somehow, that was enough. More than enough, apparently. They treated him like he was the best damn thing to happen to their orbit. Even when he didn’t believe it himself.

There’s a weight to being looked at like that. Like you’re the miracle. Like your flaws are just brushstrokes in a masterpiece. It makes him ache and it makes him grateful and it makes him wonder how long that kind of tenderness lasts.

The mirror doesn’t answer. It just watches. Like they do.
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