When the Mirror Stops Reflecting
“Another small autopsy of connection.”
Sometimes a friendship doesn’t die—it simply stops seeing. There’s no obituary for that, only a shift in the air, a silence where warmth used to live.
We write about this kind of ending again and again, each time thinking it will prepare us. But even when you have advance notice, it changes the calendar, not the impact.
Sometimes endings aren’t dramatic. Just an ordinary day when competence turns brittle and calm puts on a face. A single word can pull the curtain down. Chaotic. Difficult. Too much.
“Control your emotions.” It never means be calm. It means stop showing me what my behavior looks like when it lands.
In some spaces—meetings, friendships, even love—composure becomes performance. The appearance of balance matters more than the truth of connection. When admiration fades, anxiety rushes in to fill the gap. Partnership becomes audience management.
Some people don’t lie with anger. They lie with charm.
And some mirrors get tired—tired of polishing someone else’s image, tired of mistaking approval for peace, tired of being told that honesty is disorder.
That’s when composure earns its real meaning: not the quiet that hides conflict, but the calm that doesn’t need to explain itself.
Chaos isn’t shouting. Chaos is watching someone lose their reflection and blame the glass.
The mirror doesn’t shatter. It turns inward, catches the light, and remembers its own shape.