I stand before the mirror, staring at the man who's become a stranger to me. It's not that I don't recognize him; I do. But there's something missing. Something hollow behind the eyes.

I've always believed in the power of the image, the power of how one presents themselves. I have honed this image over years — the sharp suit, the perfect posture, the eyes that never waver, the confidence that never falters. People look at me and see power. Control. They see success.

But what do I see when I look at myself?

Nothing.

I was told once that the eyes are the window to the soul. But mine? They seem empty now, like polished glass, reflecting only the surface. There's nothing there beneath. No depth. No warmth. Just cold precision, honed to perfection.

It's strange, isn't it? How we become who we are. How we spend so much time crafting a persona, a mask, and then one day we look in the mirror, and that mask is the only thing left.

Is this me?

No.

This man in the mirror is a creation. A tool. A force that I've constructed over the years, one move at a time, one decision after another, each calculated, each designed to get me exactly where I want to be. I've controlled everything in my life with this façade. I've controlled people. I've controlled situations. I've controlled everything.

But what happens when the mask begins to crack? What happens when you look in the mirror and no longer recognize the face staring back at you?

Am I still the man who built this empire, who made everyone believe that I was untouchable? Or have I become something else entirely?

I think of Lola.

She's not a part of the image I've crafted. She never was. She's the one thing I haven't been able to control. She's the one thing that makes me question everything. Why does she slip through my grasp, no matter how hard I try to hold on?

Is this what love is? The compulsion to control, to possess? To make someone see the world through your eyes, to make them need you the way I need them? I've told myself over and over that it's love.

But is it?

Is love meant to feel like a conquest? Is love meant to be this exhausting game of pulling, pushing, waiting, manipulating? Or am I fooling myself, twisting the truth until it fits what I want it to be?

I reach up and touch my face, running my fingers over the sharp lines of my jaw, the coolness of my skin. There's no emotion in the touch. It's not affection. It's just... a reminder. A reminder that I've spent so long shaping myself into this. This man. This unbreakable, perfect version of myself. But what if it's all just a lie?

Am I truly powerful, or am I just desperately trying to convince myself of it?

I think of Lola again. I remember her face, the way her lips tightened when she spoke, the way her eyes held something deep and unspoken. She's the one person who has ever made me question myself. But why? Why does she have this power over me? I should be the one in control. I should be the one who calls the shots. But with her, I can't help but feel... small.

Is this love?

Or is it just my need to possess her, to own her, to bend her to my will?

It's so hard to know.

I want to believe it's love. I want to believe that she needs me the way I need her. That she will come to realize how perfect we are together. That everything we've been through — every interaction, every touch, every moment — was just fate, leading us to this inevitable conclusion. That I am the one who can make her whole.

But when I look at myself in the mirror, I wonder if it's all just a game. A game I've been playing for far too long. A game that I can't stop, because if I do, I'm not sure who I am anymore.

Is this what love really is?

I laugh softly, bitterly. Maybe I don't know what love is. Maybe I've never known. Maybe I've been too busy trying to control it, to force it into something that fits within the narrow confines of my own perception of the world.

But Lola... she's different. She doesn't play by the rules. She doesn't need me. She doesn't need anyone. That's what makes her so damn irresistible. That's what makes her a challenge.

And isn't that what love is supposed to be?

A challenge. A game. A way to win.

I think back to the last time I saw her — the look in her eyes when she told me she was done. The way she walked away from me like I meant nothing.

But I know better. I know she doesn't really mean it.

I stare harder into the mirror. I want to see me, the man who controls everything, the man who has everything. But all I see is a man who is losing himself, slowly but surely. The mask is slipping, and I don't know how to hold it up any longer.

But maybe... maybe that's what I need. Maybe the only way to truly have her is to let go of everything else. To stop pretending. To stop lying to myself. To stop thinking that I can control her.

Maybe I just need to show her who I really am.

And if she sees the truth... if she sees me for what I really am...

Maybe that's the moment I'll finally win.