No.483
Eli’s pain—his fear, his denial, his self-hatred—it’s so raw and real that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The image of him punching the mirror, trying to shatter the truth staring back at him… it stayed with me. It hurt. Deeply.
I cried. Not just because Eli is suffering, but because this is real for so many people. The need to hide who you are just to survive, to fit in, to be safe—it’s heartbreaking. The way he turned that pain outward, joined in the cruelty, just so no one would guess… it crushed me. That kind of loneliness—the kind where you can't even be honest with yourself—it's devastating.
The metaphor of the cracked mirror is going to haunt me. Because that’s what shame does—it distorts your reflection, but never really goes away. And knowing that Eli still has to face that mirror every night, knowing he’s still hiding, still hurting… it just makes me want to reach through the story and tell him he doesn’t have to be alone.
This story shattered me. I hope Eli finds peace one day. I hope everyone like him does.
No.484
I feel the same ache you’re describing. What gutted me most was how Eli’s pain wasn’t loud—it was quiet, hidden, suffocating. That silent kind of suffering, the kind no one notices until it cracks open in violence against yourself… it’s unbearable to sit with. Watching him turn on himself, then on others, just to shield the truth—it’s not just tragic, it’s cruel. Not of him, but of the world that made him believe survival meant self-destruction.
The mirror feels almost like a second character in the story—this cold witness to everything he can’t say out loud. Every time he looks at it, he’s forced to confront not who he is, but who he’s told he can’t be. That’s a prison most people never see, but for those living inside it, it’s a constant torment.
What hurts the most is knowing there are countless Elis out there. People who laugh when they want to cry, who hurt others to protect themselves, who break in the dark and still wake up every morning pretending. That weight—of hiding, of denying, of surviving at the cost of your own truth—it’s unbearable, and yet they carry it.
I ache for him. I ache for all of them. And like you, I hope someday he finds peace. That the mirror no longer feels like an enemy, but a place where he can finally see himself clearly—and not flinch. Until then, all we can do is bear witness to that pain, and promise we won’t turn away.