It was a bit of a cloudy day, with gentle beams of sunlight sneaking playfully through the gaps in the curtains, casting a warm glow on the vibrant pink walls of my room. I didn't pay much attention to the cheerful colors that surrounded me or the shifting hues of the sky outside. That light—soft and fleeting—rarely seemed to illuminate the path I walked or the innocent world of my 10-year-old self. In many ways, it felt like an ordinary day. The familiar jingle of keys at the door broke the silence, bringing with it a surprising shift in my routine. Two men with friendly faces, dressed in maroon uniforms, entered the house, carrying a tall, rectangular box. It looked plain and unassuming, but the mystery inside sparked a delightful curiosity within me. As they placed the object beside my shelf of dolls, I realized it was my very first mirror. At that moment, I didn't fully understand why having a mirror in my room was special. Perhaps it was connected to my older cousins' stories of Narcissus during our late-night mythology adventures. Or maybe the importance would reveal itself years later in physics class when I learned about reflections and optics. All I knew then was that this object was about to lead me to something entirely new—the urgency of truly seeing myself, for the very first time. As I stood before the mirror, I began to explore the contours of my face, a face I had only ever grasped through the eyes of others. Philosophers had long debated the meaning of beauty, and poets had penned countless verses seeking its essence. But as I gazed at my reflection, all of that felt distant. There was one undeniable truth: I didn't like what I saw. Suddenly, the teasing comments from classmates about my messy bangs or silly accessories felt much heavier. The mirror became a stage where I played both the actor and the harshest critic, marking my transition from a carefree child to a preteen eager to fit into the roles that others defined. Over time, the mirror became a witness to the ever-changing landscape of my life. It reflected the bittersweet moment when I packed away my dolls, once the stars of my imagination, to make room for makeup and accessories. It captured the thrill of shopping trips where I searched for clothes that promised social acceptance. It framed the excitement of hosting my first sleepovers, where friends and I gathered around to apply midnight skincare masks. But it also revealed the sting of betrayal, the moment I realized that some of those friendships were built on convenience rather than genuine connection. It saw my first crush, the shy smiles and nervous glances that carried the weight of a beautiful, electric feeling. It mirrored the growing pressure of exams and the relentless pursuit of academic success, as late nights spent studying left dark circles under my eyes. It bore witness to heartbreak—the tears that blurred my reflection when love slipped away—and the exhaustion of juggling too many responsibilities at once. Over time, the mirror showed me a version of myself I could hardly recognize: tired, lonely, and lost in a haze of unmet expectations and self-doubt. Eventually, the reflection I saw felt like my greatest enemy. One night, around 3 a.m., I found myself staring into the mirror, yearning for clarity. But all I found was a distortion of who I thought I should be. At that moment, I made a decision. With a kitchen knife in hand and a surge of defiance, I shattered the mirror, breaking the oppressive hold it had over me. Let me clarify, dear reader: no life was lost in this act. But for the villain that had haunted me, there was no mercy. As the glass fractured, so too did the illusion that my worth could ever be defined by a reflection. My parents, startled by the noise, rushed into the room, their voices sharp with confusion and concern. But none of that mattered. For the first time, I felt free. Now, at eighteen, I find myself standing in a different room, on another cloudy day. Gentle beams of sunlight filter through the cracks in the mirror that still hang on the wall, its surface fractured but still there. Around me are boxes—not unlike the one that brought my first mirror years ago—filled with my belongings and video equipment. Having been accepted into film school in São Paulo, I've made a promise to myself: never again will I let my reflection define me. Instead, I'll use my perspective to tell stories—stories that capture essence, creativity, and individuality, whether they belong to others or myself. As I glance at my imperfect reflection one last time, I hear the echo of my younger self asking, “What's the point of having a mirror in my room?” I smile and reply, “It's to be broken, along with every false reflection that pulls us away from who we truly are.”