Time has become an absurd concept for me, years and centuries pass and yet I remain the same. Not in the prime of my youth as portrayed in some stories. Despite the years that have passed, I still look the same.

You heard me right - I'm not getting any older. Whether you believe me or not is your choice, but there's nothing you can do about the fact that it's the truth. This is my reality. Being caught up in the world of the dying, watching them blossom and then wither, has become my very purpose in life. I have seen so many things, the most heinous places where life began, and I have just sat back. I watched to see if they would take root or rot.

Of course, I could have acted, cleaned up the mess and put life in a small, carefully chosen container. But I never considered that as an option. I would be denying reality if I really tried to do something like that. Where there is beauty, there is filth - how could a flower grow without the filth giving it the foundation and nutrients it needs to sprout?

There is a reason why things are the way they are - a reason why people grow older, die, and leave their loved ones behind. That is what I choose to believe.

I don't yet know why I am different, why I am excluded from this cycle of life and death. Is it a mistake? Am I just not worthy to follow in their footsteps? I was scared and thought for hours about what I did wrong. How I could make it right.

Until I just stopped. It sounds strange, but when I opened my eyes, I was surprised at how much time had passed, how much people's lives had changed - tears streamed down my face. It was such a beautiful sight. At that moment, I realized my role in all of this: to observe and recognize the beauty that is as resilient as a dandelion in the wind.

And yet, my time seems to have run out. Last night I noticed a single hair growing on my head - it wasn't long before all my hair was doing the same. And it didn't stop with my hair. My once tight skin became saggy, and so did the rest of my body.

It won't be long before I'm no longer here.

And I'm happier than I could ever be.

The gift you gave me I will keep in my heart.

Even though my time will eventually run out, I will never forget the beauty of which I am a part.

This is the cycle of life and death.

[removed]

The lights shined on the singular silver hair. My bathroom mirror reflection moved with me, the both of us studying the bright objects in our hands with a stunned fascination like a duo of geologists that had just unearthed a pair of rare gems.

Disbelief filled my eyes. All the years. Decades. Centuries, even. Could it finally be coming to an end?

How? I'd been careful. I'd kept everything the same. Everything.

Rage welled up from within me. I turned abruptly, throwing the single strand with as much strength as I could muster. It danced in the air, fluttering briefly, before settling into a quiet, motionless existence. Still. Accepting. The innocence of it all.

I screamed and slammed myself into a wall. I pounded my fists against the door. I tore down the shower curtain and flung the rod across the room. Anger. Agony. I needed to hurt someone—something. Even if that included me.

Finally, I turned toward the mirror. I threw a punch. The glass shattered. Once pristine and elegant, now cracked and damaged. A spiderweb extended from the impact: individual shards born from my fist. Then they fell, crashing onto the sink below and tumbling off to rest at the floor beside my feet.

I crouched down, allowing the emotions to overwhelm me, as the sound of banging glass swiftly tapered off into a queue of vanishing tinkles. Hands grasped and pulled at the hair that remained on my skull, punishing it for showing me the impossible.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it again. The grey hair. Laying there so serene, undisturbed, amidst a shower of fallen glass. The rage within me dissipated as I watched it in silence. Perhaps there was a part of me that thought it would suddenly come alive and plant itself back upon my head, color and all restored. Silly. Naive.

I crawled over to the lone hair. Fallen fragments of glass cut into my forearms and knees, but the pain was far away. Arriving at its side, I gently scooped it into my cupped hands.

For a moment, I merely sat there in that crumpled mess, huddled over that tiny strand. Water droplets began to fall into my hands. They rolled down the subtle creases of my fingers and palms until they drowned the singular hair at the bottom. I was crying.

Immortality. My oldest friend. Gone.

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