He called the diner, croaked an apology, and said he wouldn’t be coming in. Then he grabbed a crumpled hoodie and walked to the clinic down the block. The waiting room was filled with bleary-eyed clubbers and elderly locals. Justin took a seat somewhere in between—neither one nor the other.
To his left sat a girl in fishnets clutching a bottle of water like it held her soul. To his right, an old man leaned heavily on his cane, his daughter filling out forms. Justin glanced at his own hands—veined, spotted, no longer quick to heal. Something in him shifted.
For the first time, the mirror he held up to life cracked. He had always seen himself as timeless, the exception to decay. But now, watching the old man rub his swollen knuckles, Justin felt a stab of something unfamiliar—recognition. He was no longer pretending to be young. He was pretending not to be old.
His name echoed through the room. A nurse waved him in. Justin stood slowly, every movement suddenly deliberate. His knees cracked as he rose, and he forced a chuckle, as if to keep things light. “Old pipes,” he mumbled to no one. But inside, his chest was tightening with unease.