The bathroom is dead quiet. No steam, no reason — but the mirror has fogged anyway, a soft pink bleeding through from somewhere behind the glass. You've said it twice already. The name sat strange in your mouth both times, half a dare, half something you actually meant. You made a wish once. Not out loud. Just a wanting — to feel different, lighter, effortless. Desired. Someone heard it. The glow behind the mirror pulses, gentle and patient. Like it's been waiting a long time. Like it knows you'll say it again. The third time is the one that counts.