#theliminalarea

Archive of @liminalarea — where a place caught in-between; like stairwells, corridors, or empty stations at night. It is neither here nor there, neither beginning nor ending, but a pause that feels both familiar and strange. Such spaces hum quietly, holding a truth the world often forgets: that in the in-between, we see ourselves most clearly.

The Devil:

The Still-Frame:

The Broken Mirror:

The Hiding Spot:

Whose Joy Did We Steal?

Primrose had always believed that the World spun upon the axis of give and take—to receive a blessing was to rob another of theirs, and for every light that touched her skin there’s a shadow must have fallen elsewhere.

But lately, life had unfolded with unnerving ease; it had become too easy. She had the love of her life beside her, work that seemed to soften its grip, and countless small delights. A quiet restaurant tucked between narrow streets, an ice cream parlour she had never noticed before, evenings that felt painted in gentler colours; everything seemed to fall into place as though the World itself had chosen to shine for her—as if the World itself wanted her to be happy.

And for a time, she forgot her own belief. She allowed herself to drift, to savour, to rest within the warmth of days that seemed to arrive without cost. She felt as though she had escaped the rule she once held true.

*****

Until one evening, as she got home from work, Primrose wandered past an abandoned building, suspended in a half-life between ruin and survival. There, propped against the wall, stood a fractured mirror, its broken panes scattering her reflection into pieces. She stopped, and stared, unable to turn away from the rare sight of herself splintered across broken glass.

From within the shards, her reflection curved into a smile that was not her own. It moved with unsettling grace, lips parting in a whisper that lodged itself deep within her bones. “You are happy now, Primrose. But tell me, whose joy did we steal?”

Her breath caught, fogging the surface, but the smile remained. The sweetness of her days began to curdle as she stood frozen before the glass. The laughter with her love, the softening weight of her work, the fleeting bliss of ice cream beneath the sun—all of it felt suddenly heavy, each joy stitched with threads of another’s sorrow.

Her chest ached with questions she could not silence. Was every light that graced her face stolen from another? Had her happiness blossomed from soil where someone else’s garden had withered?

She lifted a trembling hand to the fractured glass, fingertips grazing the cold edges as though she might piece herself together through the shards. Her lips parted, her voice frayed and small, carrying words she could hardly bear to utter. “Do I deserve this?”