Eight years have elapsed since I've stood on that side of the mirror, staring in, hopelessly dying to know who I would be when I stepped through the glass.
Now, looking back, I can see another girl standing on that side of the mirror, not knowing it's me she's looking at on the other side. She's hurting, she's lonely. The world is small and in her hands, and the idea that tiny decisions today shatter the rest of your life haunt her.
She cannot hear my voice, and if she could, would she understand it?
If she did hear me, understand my words, what would I say to her?
Nothing.
It's not that I don't care, because I do.
It's not that I am bitter that no one helped me, because I'm not.
It's not that she needs my help, because she doesn't.
Her breath fogs up the glass and she writes letters to someone.
Begging for someone to swoop in and save her and tell her what she wants to hear.
I won't say anything to her, for fear of tainting what would be an otherwise perfectly uninhibited, uninfluenced, unguided growth into an unknown direction. She is beginning her embarkation on what she thinks is a seemingly fruitless, futile journey into becoming something amazing.
She is smart, she is strong, she is beautiful.
She has the capacity to be better than anything that ever was before her.
So I will maintain my seat, the priestess before the veil, and let her travel her own way to the moon.
