Tired Doll

despite its time in the mirror realm, the Doll still rarely looked in the mirror. it actively avoided doing so, in fact. every time it caught a glimpse of its reflection, it was reminded that its body was not of its own construction. the thing that lived in the mirror never looked right; it had the Doll's rich eyes, its (regularly unbrushed and tangled) gently waving hair, its gentle smile and flawed, cracked skin. still, it never looked right. it lacked the Doll's spark, its essence, its lifeforce. it was like a photograph taken on an overcast day, and aged in the sun for thirty years; the details were all there, but dulled and lacking colour.

sometimes, much like in the mirror realm, the Doll would catch the briefest glimpse of the girl who lived in the mirror. she never stayed, usually darting away in the space of the Doll's blink, but she'd come back sometimes. there were days she'd stick around a little longer, but she was always gone by the end of the day. on those days, the Doll would study the mirror, as long as the girl would stay.

things have changed, though, since the Doll met the man at the repair shop. the girl who lives in the mirror comes to visit more often. almost every time the Doll looks, there she is. it's... strange. it's almost like the Doll could reach out and touch her.

and so she reaches.