05/13/2025
Title: “Kisha’s Mirror”
Kisha was known for her fire. Not the kind that burns houses down, but the kind that could melt silence and light up a room with nothing but a raised eyebrow. She wasn’t mean, she was misunderstood—and she was tired of pretending otherwise.
She lived in a neighborhood where smiles came with side-eyes, and “How are you?” meant “Let me judge your answer.” But Kisha didn’t play those games. She told the truth, even when it bit like winter air.
There was one person who always struck a nerve—her longtime friend-turned-roommate, Devon. He was the kind who thought apologies were spells: say them, and everything reset. Every time he broke a promise, forgot something important, or made a slick comment he thought was funny, he’d say, “You’re just too sensitive, Kisha.”
Sensitive. That word twisted in her gut every time he said it.
One night, after yet another “What’s your problem now?” argument, Kisha stormed out and walked to the park. The moon was full, casting silver streaks over the quiet paths. She sat on a bench, fists clenched. Her breath formed clouds in the cool air.
An old woman appeared beside her. No footsteps, no warning—just there. She wore a long gray coat and carried a mirror the size of a pizza box.
“Rough night?” the woman asked without looking at her.
Kisha sighed. “He keeps doing the same stuff that pi**es me off, and I’m the one who needs to ‘fix my attitude.’”
The woman finally turned, her eyes sharp like lightning in a storm. She handed Kisha the mirror. “Take a look.”
Kisha frowned but looked anyway. What she saw wasn’t her reflection—it was a movie playing in the glass. Scenes of her and Devon arguing, again and again. She watched herself explain, cry, yell, forgive. Then start over. Always hoping this time would be different.
“I’m tired,” Kisha whispered.
The old woman nodded. “You keep adjusting your reaction, hoping it’ll change the situation. But what if he’s the one who needs to adjust? You’re not broken—you’re breaking under the weight of repetition.”
Kisha blinked. The movie paused. In the mirror, a new scene played—Kisha packing her bags, walking away, smiling. Her fire wasn’t gone—it was controlled. Directed. Powerful.
She looked up. The old woman was gone.
Back at the apartment, Kisha didn’t argue. She didn’t explain. She didn’t cry. She just said, “You say I need to fix my attitude, but you never fixed your behavior. That’s the real problem.”
Then she left.
The twist?
Devon didn’t get it. Not then. Not a week later. But six months down the line, when no one stayed, when silence became his new roommate, he finally looked in the mirror—and saw himself.
As for Kisha?
She never looked back. Because once you learn the difference between reaction and reflection, you don’t settle for repeating cycles. You rise above them.
And that’s how you fix your attitude—by walking away from what refuses to fix itself.
