The Reflection That Wouldn't Look Away

The Reflection That Wouldn’t Look Away

At first, it was nothing—just a flicker.

Lena caught it while brushing her teeth one night. Her reflection blinked just a beat too slow, the kind of thing you'd shrug off as tired eyes or a smudge on the mirror. She leaned closer, squinting. Everything seemed normal. The toothbrush moved when hers did. Her lips parted when she spat. She laughed at herself and went to bed.

But the flicker came back.

A few days later, while adjusting her hair before work, she noticed the reflection’s hand lagged a moment behind hers. Just a second—half, maybe—but enough to freeze her mid-motion. She waved at herself like a fool, testing it. It waved back, perfectly in sync.

Weird.

Maybe it was her mind playing tricks. She hadn’t been sleeping well. The city was loud, her job was stressful, and her apartment had that strange draft that made her feel watched at night. Still, the mirror began to bother her. She started to avoid looking too long, afraid she'd notice something else.

But she always did.

The delays became more frequent. One morning, her reflection smiled just a little too late. Another evening, it blinked while she held her eyes open. She started filming herself in front of the mirror with her phone. Nothing looked out of place on playback. But in real time… something felt wrong.

One night, she was applying makeup for a date. Leaning close to the mirror, she carefully traced eyeliner over her lid. Her hand trembled—nerves, maybe. She laughed at herself again, then froze.

The reflection wasn't smiling.

Not hers.

Its smile came slowly, deliberately, like the curve of something stretching under skin. Her own mouth remained neutral, slightly open. But in the mirror, her reflection smiled. Wide. Too wide.

She stumbled back. The reflection did not.

It stayed close, leaned in, grin never fading. Its eyes locked with hers like it knew something she didn’t.

And it didn’t look away.

“Stop,” she whispered, breath shaky.

The reflection smiled wider. A crack in the glass appeared—just a hairline fracture above its brow.

She blinked.

The crack was gone. The reflection was still smiling.

That night, Lena covered all the mirrors in her apartment. Bathroom, bedroom, hallway. She used towels, sheets, jackets—anything she could find. She slept fitfully, heart pounding at the slightest creak or whisper. Her dreams were filled with mirrors, all reflecting something just slightly wrong.

In one dream, her reflection stepped out of the glass and crawled into her bed.

The next morning, she found one of the sheets had fallen. The bathroom mirror was exposed. She hadn’t looked, but somehow, she knew it had been watching her sleep.

Week Two

Lena stopped going to work. She unplugged her TV, covered her phone’s front camera with tape, and avoided shiny surfaces. The silver spoon in her kitchen drawer? Gone. Her laptop screen? Smashed.

Friends texted. She didn’t answer.

When she passed a store window, she held her hand up to block her face. But curiosity always won. She glanced once—just once—and saw her reflection waving. Slowly. Like a goodbye.

She ran home and locked every door. She began hearing whispers. Faint, familiar. Her own voice, coming from behind the mirrors. “Let me in,” it said. “You’ve kept me out long enough.”

She tried smashing the bathroom mirror.

It didn’t break.

She swung harder. Still nothing.

The glass rippled.

Like water.

Lena dropped the hammer and backed away, hyperventilating. The reflection grinned from the other side. It raised its hand—not mimicking, not copying, just… waving.

It leaned closer, pressing its face to the glass. Lips moved.

“I’m not your reflection anymore.”

The Final Night

Lena had a plan. Candles, salt, a mirror turned backward. Something she read on an old forum about binding spirits. She didn’t care if it sounded insane. Insane felt like home now.

She chanted the words. Drew the circle. Lit the candles.

And the mirror shattered.

Not with a bang—but a breath. A soft exhale, like glass sighing.

The shards scattered, but she didn’t bleed. In the broken pieces, she saw herself—hundreds of little Lenas staring back. Most were normal. One was smiling.

And that one didn’t blink.

As she reached to cover it, a cold hand touched her shoulder.

From behind.

She turned, but no one was there.

In the fragments at her feet, all of her reflections were gone. Only one remained.

Standing.

Not copying.

Just watching.

The next day, the apartment was quiet.

The candles had burned down. The sheets over the mirrors had fallen. Her phone lay untouched on the floor, buzzing with missed calls.

And in the bathroom mirror, Lena stood—smiling.

But Lena wasn’t in the apartment anymore.

She was behind the glass.

Waiting for someone else to look too long.

Waiting for someone else to blink first.