Miro

I was about two years old, cradled in my mother’s embrace in the living room. She was lulling me to sleep but I wanted none of it, squirming and turning my head around for something that would grab my attention. My eyes focused on the mirror hanging on the wall and I reached for it with my short arms. It felt like it was a whole world away and I had the taste of tears and defeat in my mouth when I saw the image of myself in there, doing his best to reach back to me. So I pointed to my own image, looked it dead in the eyes and uttered my first word. Not a simple word like ‘dada’ or ‘poop’ but a real word.

“Friend.”

Here, my memories differed from my mother’s. She told me that she swiveled around and showered me with kisses, happy that I said such a beautiful word. I had some additional images. As she swiveled around, my eyes were still focused on my own reflection, who split into a wide grin and mimed the same word I just said.



The first day in school, first grade. I was a shy person but didn’t know how bad it was until I entered the classroom and noticed how a dozen curious gazes stared at me like I was a new toy. The low mutters and whispers shared between my classmates hummed in the background as I stuttered through my presentation, reciting the script I practiced the night before with a thousand yard stare, not daring to meet my peers. My chest tightened as I prattled on. There were some mild applauses when I reached the end of my presentation and I hurried to my desk, sight locked on the floor. There was this mantra that echoed in my mind, I don’t remember if it was my mother or father who said it to me when I shared my worries with beginning school.

Don’t make a big deal out of it. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Don’t make a big deal out of it.

I didn’t hear what the lesson was about, but I was aware of other small sounds. Someone repositioning, sighing, craning their neck. I swear I heard them glance towards me, how their skin creased when turning their heads.

When the break began, I rushed to the bathroom and shut myself in there. A bleak small room with thirty-six grey floor tiles, I counted them all in an attempt to calm down, but my breathing only turned more erratic. Then, through my peripherals, I noticed the mirror above the basin. I stared at it and told the reflection that this was a stupid situation. That I should calm down. Take deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale.

The image didn’t follow suit. He observed me with a puzzled expression, then shook his head and made a grimace. Rolled his eyes, stuck out his tongue and pushed his nose upward so you could see the holes. Finished by grabbing his cheeks and rattling them, like flabby skins.

I laughed. Not a small chuckle but big, gasping laughs that made tears run down my cheeks. I’m not really sure why I laughed at something like that. Maybe I was so tensed up that I would’ve reacted to anything that was remotely funny.

It helped. The breathing got easier.

I looked at the image, who nodded and slapped himself proudly on the chest. I mouthed “thank you” to him and he responded with a thumbs up.

That was the first time Miro helped me out. The moment I began to interact with him daily. How could I not? Miro was the greatest of friends, always close by and always ready to cheer me up and brighten my day. Even if I didn’t look in a mirror, I could see him wave at me through my peripherals whenever I passed something with a reflection. Each time I felt distraught or panic, I would go to the closest bathroom with a mirror and Miro would calm me down. Either by being funny or by just being supportive. He knew my pain and anxieties. He understood them. And somehow, knowing that there was someone else who was aware of my own problems made it a little bit easier. Miro was my closest friend. I would wake up, brush my teeth and see his image do the same and then break off doing something else. I would always go to the bathroom during breaks and spend time with Miro. I even learned how to read lips to understand him better.

But Miro wasn’t real. At least that was what my parents said. They were worried about me and my imaginary friend, that I spent more time with Miro than with the other kids in school. I was a loner in the eyes of the teacher. No, I was a loner in everyone’s eyes - shutting myself in the school’s bathroom whenever I could.

To not make it a bigger deal, I began to have long grueling sessions with this strange lady who prodded me with questions. She would look at me through her big, square glasses and her hands would scribble in the notepad whenever I mentioned Miro. She would ask me about father, mother and other relatives. The neighbors. She would always have something to ask and I tried to answer as well as I could. Often time it would be about some facts and curiosities like what my father did for work or what do I see myself doing in five years time. But sometimes, she would do a polite cough and ask something strange or uncomfortable.

“Do you feel safe?”

That question took a lot out of me. I think I said ‘yes’ quite fast. She nodded, scribbled something down and moved on. My head ground over that question for days, I had so many things to back up with my answer. My parents loved me. My mother listens to my worries and my father takes me to the cinemas and theme parks every now and then. The neighborhood was a quiet place and if anything dangerous would happen, my father would probably come to my rescue. Sirens blaring, gun blazing. Of course I felt safe. Else I would just be ungrateful.

That took a turn when high school started. There was this big guy who took a liking to trip me up or shove me to the wall whenever I tried to go to the bathroom. I tried to avoid him as much as possible but it only made him more daring with his attempts, more reckless.

I soldiered on. Miro suggested that I should tell the authorities about it but I shook my head. His eyes were filled with worries. He didn’t try to cheer me up or support my decision. For once, Miro looked uncertain and scared. I could see in the reflection that his body was closed, his arms crossed and his expression thoughtful. I touched the glass and he did the same. I had a smile while he bit down on his lips.

I remember saying, “It’s not a big deal.”

And then it happened. One day, the bully said something aggravating. I don’t even remember the words. Only that I pushed him down the stairs. His face filled with panic and his hands grasped the air. The low thud. The blood. The screams and shouting. The ambulance.

I was at the scene, taking everything in. I read the lips of one of the medical personnel. Fatal head wound. Need immediate operation.

Both parties' parents were called into the principal’s office and the shouting match began. Accusations, insults, and finger-pointing. I couldn’t find a mirror there nor was I allowed to go to the bathroom. I sat in a corner, my mother holding me tight and kissing my forehead, her face haggard, her hands trembling. My father, stood straight and tall, taking the harsh words and countering with his own. Both parties never agreed to a conclusion that afternoon and both left with an empty pain. My father met up with some friends for advice and my mother headed to bed, too exhausted after today’s incident.

It became a big deal after all. The lips of the medic replayed in my mind. I didn’t want to become a murderer. The image of the blood seeping out from the head flashed before my eyes. What would happen next? I didn’t dare to imagine. I just wanted it all to end.



Miro was shocked when he saw me in the bathroom holding my father’s gun. His lips were soundless but I understood.

Don’t do it.

I didn’t have any words for him. Only tears and a grim expression.

Don’t do it.

I sobbed and removed the safety from the gun. Pointing it to my head.

Lukas, please. Talk to me. 

Miro started to bash against the mirror. It was strange to see him use so much force but I still couldn’t hear anything. His mouth contorted in a soundless scream as he tackled the mirror with his shoulder.

I closed my eyes. My face pulled into a strained grimace. My finger quivered.

The sound of shattered glass exploded in my ears. Something struck my gun hand. A deafening bang. But there was no pain, no end. Instead, the warmth of a person embraced me.

“Lukas, please don’t do it.” I could feel his body tremble. I could hear his voice crack. I could see him in front of me, no mirror separating us anymore. “I’m sorry that you feel this way. I know that it hurts and you’re feeling guilty. It’s okay to feel this way.”

My head spun. I didn’t know what was happening, everything was in slow motion. I heard my heartbeats, the glass clinked against the floor. My vision blurred and faded into darkness.

“Please, it will get better. Don’t end it.”



I woke up in a hospital bed. My mother found me unconscious in the bathroom with splintered glass all over the place and called the emergency hotline. My father joined soon after.

There’s this faint memory of me tensing up, bracing myself for my punishment. I was ready for them to lash out at me, all furious and accuse me of being a coward. But instead, they hugged me tightly, saying again and again how they’re glad I’m alive. They were thanking God. They even thanked me for being brave and not taking the last step. And everything inside me gushed out. I apologized over and over again, through heavy sobs and coughs, I apologized for everything. I didn’t want any of this to happen, but it still did. It was beyond my control. I apologized until my voice grew hoarse.

It turned out just as Miro said. It got better.