I Saw Myself Watching Me

I Saw Myself Watching Me

• It started on a Monday. A completely average, uneventful Monday.

I woke up, brushed my teeth, checked my phone, and sat down for breakfast. That’s when I saw it—the moment that cracked reality like a mirror struck at its center.

My apartment has a hallway mirror facing the kitchen. While sipping my coffee, I glanced toward it. Just a passing glance. But what I saw made my blood run still.

I was already sitting there.

Not in the mirror. Outside it. The real me—sitting at the table, staring at me, blank-faced, hands folded. Wearing the same hoodie, same coffee mug, same everything. Like I had been there longer than I’d realized.

Except… I hadn’t.

I dropped the mug. Porcelain shattered like bone. I shot up and looked again—nothing. Just my reflection.

I blamed lack of sleep. Caffeine withdrawal. Stress. But deep down, I wasn’t convinced.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My bedroom window kept creaking even though it was closed. I felt a presence, like someone was leaning over my bed, whispering softly, just under hearing range. A hush that brushed against my eardrums like breath.

At 3:12 AM, I turned over and saw myself standing in the doorway, watching me sleep.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t.

He didn’t move. Neither did I.

I blinked.

Gone.

I stopped going to work. I unplugged the cameras. I covered all the mirrors. I taped my windows. I even painted over the reflective parts of my microwave and fridge.

But he still found ways in.

In reflections in puddles. The back of a spoon. The shine of a doorknob. Always watching, never speaking. Identical, but… off.

Slightly hungrier. Slightly colder. Slightly more in control.

I went to a therapist. She nodded calmly as I spoke.

"Have you ever had moments where your sense of self feels fractured?" she asked.

“I think I’m being replaced,” I whispered.

She wrote something in her notes and handed me a small mirror. “What do you see when you look into this?”

I didn’t want to. But I did.

He was smiling.

I ran.

Out of the office. Into the street. Into the crowd. But somehow, I kept seeing myself in every reflective surface—smiling wider, more confidently, more him than me.

That night, I destroyed all photos of myself. I deleted social media. I tried to forget who I was.

But now, he knows who he is.

And last night, I saw him again.

Only this time, I was on the other side of the glass, pounding, screaming, unable to escape.

He was in my bed. Drinking my coffee. Living my life.

I saw myself watching me.

But I don’t think I’m coming back.

Absolutely. Here's a 300-word continuation of your story titled:

I Saw Myself Watching Me

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I didn’t move. Neither did she.

It was like staring into a mirror that had a soul. Not just a reflection, but an entire presence—breathing, blinking, judging. Her eyes were mine, but older somehow. More tired. Like she had seen things I hadn’t yet.

She tilted her head, just slightly. I did not.

That’s when I knew—this wasn’t me.

Not the version that wakes up and scrolls through meaningless apps. Not the version that laughs politely at jokes she doesn’t find funny. Not the version that plays roles to fit the room she walks into.

No, the one watching me… was real. Raw. The unfiltered version I buried beneath deadlines, people-pleasing, and curated filters.

She didn’t need to speak. I knew what she was asking.

> “When did you stop being me?”

My chest tightened. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. She held me there—not with hands, but with truth.

Then I realized something else:

She wasn’t angry.

She was waiting.

Waiting for me to choose her again. To stop pretending. To shed the thousand versions I became to survive, and return to the one I used to be when I wasn’t afraid of being misunderstood.

I reached out—toward the mirror, toward her, toward me.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone in my own skin.

And in that moment, I didn’t just see myself watching me…

I saw myself becoming whole again.