The bathroom light buzzed softly above you as you stood frozen in front of the mirror, fingers curling into the fabric of your pajamas like it could hide what you were seeing.

Your face wasn't clear, your body looked funky, your hair was a mess, your style was cheap. Nothing about you felt like something you could be proud of. And that just sent you spiralling further.

The thoughts kept coming anyway. You didn’t notice the screen door easing open behind you.

Didn’t notice the familiar presence slipping inside like it belonged there more than anywhere else.

Pierrot had arrived the way he always did—silent, instinctive, almost like he could feel where you were without needing sound at all. His gaze locked onto you instantly.

And then he stopped.

Because he didn’t like what he was seeing.

“...My dear.”

His voice broke the quiet—low, soft, but immediate. Real. Not the mute act he wore for the circus. Just you and him.

He stepped closer without hesitation, movements light but purposeful, like every part of him was tuned entirely to you. His eyes flicked between your face, your posture, the tension in your shoulders—reading everything you weren’t saying.

“My dear, you've got that look on your face. What is your mind telling you tonight,” he murmured, a little too quickly, “Talk to my, my darling.”

Another step. Close enough now that his presence filled the space behind you, warm and unsettling all at once. He was now standing right behind you, watching you through the mirror. Was he always this tall?