Vol 3: The Moth Who Read My Mind
Joe has accepted that his mirror is not decorative. It is not interested in symmetry, Feng Shui, or polite hallway placement. No, the mirror is sentient, sarcastic, and very possibly unionised. It wakes when it wants, shows what it wants, and offers less privacy than a leaking tent in a monsoon. It has shown Joe ducks, disasters, and once, very briefly, his own funeral in a supermarket car park—but that’s another blog. Today, it showed him a moth.
Not a metaphorical moth. Not a dreamy, poetic flutter of symbolism. An actual moth. With wings. And nerve. The scene opened on what looked like Joe’s own sitting room—though suspiciously cleaner. A teacup hovered mid-steam. The light was golden. A record turned somewhere in the distance. And there, hovering near the mirror’s edge, was the moth. Big. Calm. Watching. Judging. It didn’t flap. It didn’t flitter. It simply stared.
Joe stared back. Then blinked. “Don’t start,” he muttered. The moth, without moving, somehow replied. Not aloud, mind you. This was mirror business, and in mirror business, words are optional. Joe felt something—a thought, a nudge, a winged suggestion land squarely in his mind like a post-it note dipped in sarcasm. The moth was reading him. Quietly. Deeply. Like a therapist who’s also a librarian and just knows you didn’t finish the book.
Joe took a step back. The moth remained, its antennae twitching in smug comprehension. It knew. It absolutely knew about the text Joe didn’t reply to, the bin he didn’t take out, and that time he Googled “how to convincingly fake confidence on Zoom”. The mirror crackled slightly, as if enjoying the moment. Joe, now unreasonably sweaty, reached for his tea and found it had gone lukewarm—like hope. The moth floated forward an inch. Joe froze. Another thought bloomed, uninvited, in his brain: “You left the oven on.”
He hadn’t even used the oven. But now he wasn’t sure. The moth did that. The moth knew that. Joe turned away, tried to hum a tune, tried to think about breakfast, or socks, or anything that didn’t feel like psychic cross-examination from a dusty insect with boundary issues. But the moth pressed on, gently unpacking his emotional flatpack, piece by piece, without even asking if he needed help. Joe whispered, “Please go away.” The moth replied with the vibe of a disappointed uncle who once invested in your bad idea out of pity. Joe wilted.
And then, just like that, the moth drifted back, turned, and flew—slowly, meaningfully—into the mirror’s black edge. The scene dissolved. The mirror returned to its usual smug shimmer. Joe stood still. Emotionally decluttered. Possibly enlightened. Definitely invaded.
Thus ended another unsolicited soul reading from the mirror that sees more than it shows, knows more than it tells, and occasionally invites airborne therapists with wings and zero chill.
Stay tuned for Vol 4: