Mirror.

A wintry, incandescent sun is touching the concrete floor, bouncing back against the smooth, metallic surface stuck to the cupboard, and laying your room naked for you. You, who are brilliantly illuminated against a grilled window; you, who are dilating your pupils in shattering realisation; you, who have broken down all over again. You, my past love, and my present companion. That's the thing about mirrors, Nisha. They reveal.

I can picture you clearly from inside this box- you are taking closer and closer strides towards the mirror, trying to wrest your past from its arms. It lies right ahead of you, a cool, unassuming surface, harmlessly amused at your predicament. Your arms are spread into the darkening evening. You finally take the defining step, and rest your throbbing forehead against its soothing rim. Nisha meets Nisha.

Open the box, honey. I can feel you dying to know the whole story, even though you seemed to have pieced half of it together. Open it.

Take me out.

Yes, take the photograph out.

Bring that goddamned letter too. It's right in the next room.

Now, sit down.