In the Reflection

I begin:

In the reflection on the glass window of the moving bus at night, he saw himself. It was clear that it was him that he was seeing; the dorky looking glasses coupled with a toothy grin, it was as unmistakeable as the inky darkness of a moon-less night. Yet there was something wrong with the picture; superficially, the reflection was flawless—a perfect replica of him through the physics of reflective elements, but upon closer inspection, it seemed that it wasn't really him at all in the reflection. There was a different air about the reflection, as though it were some close approximation to who he was in real life, but made out in a way that re-conveyed itself as him being much more sombre, more dark, yet more knowing. He struggled for a while, trying to come up with the word to best describe what he saw, yet words failed him as he found himself somewhat intimidated by the reflection in the window.

For some reason, I just felt like writing a few lines with regards to reflections in windows and stuff.