When the Mirror is a Fire

(Ace of Swords – Part 2) 

We were complete opposites.
At least, that’s what everyone thought.

I was the good girl.
The teacher’s pet.
The one who did her homework, studied, smiled, tried to make everyone feel better.
Naive. Optimistic. Oblivious to the way boys tripped over themselves to do things for me—carry my books, bring me snacks, walk me to class.
I thought they were just being nice.

He wasn’t like them.

He didn’t care about school.
Didn’t care about rules.
Cursed too loud. Smirked too often.
Carried the kind of confidence that came from not giving a damn what anyone thought.

We met during JROTC service hours—six hours in the summer sun, cleaning fairgrounds.
By the end of it, I wasn’t the same.
He had seen something in me I had buried so deep, I’d almost forgotten it existed.

We liked the same music.
Had the same kind of mom—the kind that made you feel small without ever raising their voice.
He let my questions get weird. Met my thoughts with fire, not silence.
He mirrored the part of me I was never allowed to be.

And that part of me felt seen.
Felt alive.
Felt like this was what fate must feel like.

They say twin flames burn the brightest.
I think we were just two open wounds—pressed against each other, calling it love.

When he was tender, it was intoxicating.
When he wasn’t—I convinced myself I could handle it.

He said I made him feel safe.
Said no one ever saw him the way I did.
But he didn’t know how to hold me when I wasn’t shining.

And I had been trained to shine.
To disappear into someone else’s needs.
So I did.

Again.

I stopped challenging.
Stopped dreaming.
Stopped choosing anything that made him feel small—even if it was mine to choose.

And for a while, I thought that was love.

But then—
I met someone else.
Someone gentle.
Someone who mirrored the best parts of my life instead of the ones I was trying to escape.

And I realized… there had to be more.

So I wrote a letter.
I ended it.

I thought that was the end of the story.

But two months later, he came back on holiday leave.
My family let him stay in their house.
My mother pressured me to reconcile.
He proposed.

And when I said no—he didn’t believe me.

He told me I owed him more.
That I’d led him on.
That I was cheating.
That I never gave him a fair chance to win me back.

And under the weight of guilt, shame, family, memory—
I broke again.

He raped me.
More than once.
In my parents’ home.
In a house I was trusted to care for.
In a silence I had been raised to keep.

I felt dirty.
I felt like I had betrayed the man who had loved me gently.
I tried to push Ryan away—because how could I let anyone love me now?

But even then—
Even after everything—
I took my ex to the airport.
Looked him in the eye.
And said my answer hadn’t changed.

I didn’t want him.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.

I drove away.
Shaking.
Bleeding.
But still holding the sword.

I used to think that connection meant truth.
That being seen was enough.
But not all mirrors are sacred.
Some just show you your pain, so you’ll keep coming back to it.

The sword showed me that love without respect isn’t love. It’s bondage.
And I had already cut the cord.