I never really thought much about washing mirrors. It was just one of those mundane household chores that needed to be done—like dusting the shelves or sweeping the floor. But then I noticed something odd. Every time I cleaned a mirror, you would watch me with an amused expression, as if I were performing some kind of magic trick. At first, I dismissed it, thinking it was just my imagination. But after several incidents, I began to wonder: why do you like watching me wash mirrors?
It started subtly. I would grab my spray bottle, loaded with my secret concoction of vinegar and water, and a trusty microfiber cloth. As I sprayed the mist onto the glass, tiny droplets danced across the surface before I wiped them away in smooth, circular motions. That was when I first caught you watching, a barely contained smile on your face. When I turned to ask what was so funny, you quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in something else.
The second time it happened, I decided to test a theory. I deliberately let the mirror fog up a little more before I wiped it down, drawing little swirls and shapes in the condensation. I even wrote a message: “I see you.” Sure enough, you chuckled, pretending not to have noticed. But I saw the way your eyes twinkled, the way you lingered just long enough to see what I would do next.
Curious now, I tried to figure out what it was about this task that fascinated you so much. Was it the way the reflection distorted and reformed as I wiped away the streaks? Did you enjoy seeing the world shift from cloudy to crystal clear? Or was it something about me—about the way I moved, the way I focused intently on making sure there wasn’t a single smudge left behind?
One day, I decided to be bold. As I stood before the mirror, cleaning away the day’s fingerprints and dust, I caught your reflection watching me. Instead of saying anything, I met your gaze in the mirror and gave you a playful wink. Your laughter burst out, filling the room, and that was when I realized: it wasn’t about the mirrors. It was about the moment—the shared joke, the little bit of mystery, the simple pleasure of watching something ordinary turn into something amusing.
So, I leaned into it. I started making a show of it, twirling my cloth like a magician’s handkerchief, making dramatic flourishes as I wiped. I even added commentary, pretending I was on a home improvement show, explaining the “fine art” of mirror-cleaning. You laughed every single time. It became our thing—an inside joke, a ritual of sorts.
Sometimes, I would leave little messages or drawings on the mirror before I cleaned it, just to see your reaction. A smiley face. A heart. Once, I even wrote, “If you’re reading this, you owe me ice cream.” And to my delight, you actually brought me ice cream that evening, grinning like you had just pulled off the world’s greatest prank.
One evening, after an especially long day, I stood before the bathroom mirror, spray bottle in hand, feeling exhausted. My movements were slower, less animated. I wasn’t in the mood to put on a show. But even then, I felt your presence, that familiar gaze watching me from behind. This time, instead of laughing, you stepped forward, took the cloth from my hand, and started cleaning the mirror yourself.
It was the first time I had ever seen you do it. And as I watched you—your brow furrowed in concentration, the way you carefully wiped every corner—I realized something. Maybe you had always been watching because it was a moment of calm, of transformation. The way a smudged, dirty mirror became spotless again. The way clarity emerged from chaos.
That night, after the mirror gleamed, you turned to me and said, “I see you.”
It was such a simple phrase, but it meant everything. Because in that moment, I knew—it was never really about the mirrors. It was about us. About being seen, about shared moments, about finding joy in the simplest of things.
So now, every time I pick up my cloth and spray bottle, I smile. Because I know you’ll be watching. And I know, no matter how many times I clean the mirrors, I will always see you, just as you see me.
