The boy, no older than fifteen and standing at 5'11, stood beneath the shower as warm water cascaded down his frame, washing away the last traces of soap and sleep. Steam clouded the room, the air thick with silence and the faint scent of citrus and salt. The water dripped along his shoulders, tracing veins down to his wrists before falling into the drain. He watched it swirl away absently.
He always thought waking up was the most important part of the day. At least, that's what he used to tell himself. The thought of brushing his teeth, washing his hair, taking a shower—those little rituals that made you feel like you were preparing to present yourself to the world. Preparing, he thought, like dressing up for a stage you never asked to perform on. But even that thought drifted into the haze of the morning steam.
After too long under the water, he finally turned the knob and stepped out, wrapping a towel loosely around his waist. His reflection waited in the cracked mirror, fogged and fractured, the pieces of glass holding versions of him that didn't quite line up. Toothbrush in hand, he started his routine—but as the bristles brushed idly against his teeth, his gaze caught on the reflection again, and he stopped.
Even through the cracks, he could see it: the dirty-blonde hair pushed back in messy confidence, with strands falling stubbornly over his cyan eyes. His jawline was sharp, his cheekbones drawn and defined from years of quiet discipline, his expression detached but deliberate—like someone rehearsing the right amount of indifference. He turned his head side to side, studying angles as if testing symmetry.
"Damn, I look good," he murmured, the words soft but certain. He flexed his arms, admiring the lean, wiry muscle that spoke of years of effort. "That workout plan Teach gave me all those years ago did wonders," he added with a faint smirk, hands moving behind his head as he tightened his abdomen until eight distinct lines surfaced beneath his skin.
Then the moment stilled.
In one of the mirror's fragments, something flickered—a boy no older than seven appeared, standing beneath a halo of golden stage lights. He wore a red tailcoat trimmed with gold, white gloves adorned with diamonds, a black cane, and a small top hat that seemed too large for him. The audience before him was alive—cheers, laughter, applause echoing through a theater painted in light and sound. The boy bowed and vanished, reappearing across the stage, each motion punctuated by flair and grace. His cane twirled; his hat tipped; his body moved as though he commanded the air itself.
The crowd adored him. Adults clapped in astonishment, children screamed with delight. Their faces glowed under the lights, their joy feeding him like a living pulse. And as the lights burned brighter, the boy smiled—until he didn't. The expression faltered, his bright grin collapsing into something unreadable, and just like that, the scene dissolved.
The fifteen-year-old stood there again, toothbrush still in his mouth, staring into the reflection where the child had been. The same emptiness lingered on his face. He sighed and went back to his routine, finishing his brushing, rinsing with mouthwash, then moving through his skincare as if following a silent choreography he'd done a thousand times. When he combed his hair, pressing down the loose strands, his reflection stared back with quiet disapproval, the fractured image a reminder of how easily things split apart.
He left the bathroom and entered his room, where the morning light slipped through the curtains and painted soft amber streaks across the floor. He dressed mechanically—underwear, white shirt, then the navy jacket and black tie of his new uniform. He didn't like it. It was too formal, too tight, too much like a costume. But then again, wasn't everything?
He searched for his suitcase, muttering to himself. Where's my suitcase? I know I had it here. I'm supposed to take it for the dorms. He turned to leave his room, ready to go bother his parents in theirs, before the memory surfaced—his parents had already dropped it off yesterday. A sigh of relief, small and hollow, escaped him.
He moved through the house quietly, glancing into his parents' room. Empty. The same with the kitchen and living room. He wasn't surprised. They were likely away again—business, travel, something more important than farewells. He opened the fridge, half expecting a note. Nothing. So much for believing they'd be the type to send their son off, he thought bitterly.
His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing against his temple. Irritation? No. It wasn't anger. It was resignation, something deeper—an exhaustion that came from expecting nothing and still feeling the sting of it.
He stepped toward the front door, gripping the handle, pausing before the threshold. The quiet pressed in around him. He called out into it, half-mocking, half-hoping:
"Mom, Dad—your son Astra is leaving."
No answer. Only the soft hum of silence, like the fading reverb of applause after a show has ended.
He let out a laugh—a thin, empty sound that carried no humor. Just breath and memory. He looked over his shoulder once, taking in the hollow house that had raised him, then stepped outside.
The morning light hit his face, and he straightened his posture. Every movement precise, calculated—the body language of someone who had learned to wear confidence like a tailored suit. The faint trace of a smile curved his lips, more reflex than feeling. He locked the door behind him and exhaled.
Another day, yet another start.