My Shadow Has a Mind of Its Own

I first noticed it on a Tuesday. The light outside was harsh, slicing in through the blinds, turning the floor into alternating stripes of brilliance and darkness. I was pacing, rehearsing a difficult phone call in my head. That’s when I saw it — the shadow on the wall.

It was mine. Same height. Same posture. But it was a half-second off.

It mimicked me... but not quite.

At first, I thought it was just the light playing tricks, a minor delay in perception caused by stress or lack of sleep. But the next day, I saw it again. I waved my hand — the shadow did too — but with a lag. Like it had to think first.

Then came the moments when I wasn’t moving at all, and it was.

It would shift slightly when I stood still. A twitch. A lean. Once, it cocked its head — and I hadn’t moved a muscle. The hair on my arms prickled. I blinked hard. It was back in place.

I didn’t tell anyone. What would I say? That my shadow was misbehaving?

I started testing it. In my apartment, under the bare ceiling light, I’d stand facing the wall. Raise an arm. Twist my torso. My shadow mostly followed, but now it added small details. Delays. Unexplained shivers.

The weirdest part? It started to feel... conscious. Not malicious. Just curious. Almost like a child trying to learn by copying, but not quite understanding what it was imitating.

One night, I was brushing my teeth, light humming above the mirror. I turned to the side, and there it was again. Except this time — its reflection wasn’t in sync. It raised its arm to its head and held it there, still and solemn, like it was thinking.

I dropped the toothbrush.

It hit the floor and rolled to the edge of the sink. When I bent down to grab it, I noticed: no shadow on the floor. I stood quickly. The shadow was standing too — behind me. But I hadn’t moved.

I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.

I started keeping the lights off. Shadow needs light, I figured. Darkness made me feel safer. At work, in the flickering overhead fluorescents, I kept my eyes on the floor. My coworkers noticed my new quietness, but they assumed burnout or some breakup I hadn’t shared. Let them. That was easier.

By the third week, things got worse. My shadow didn’t just lag or twitch.

It started to walk away.

I was standing at a crosswalk one morning. Pale sunlight reflected off glass storefronts, long shadows stretching ahead of every pedestrian. Mine suddenly… stepped out. It turned left, while I stood frozen. It moved slowly, like it was testing its range.

People around me didn’t seem to notice. No one screamed. No one gasped. Just me, wide-eyed, heart thudding like a trapped bird in my chest.

And then it stopped. It turned — and faced me.

It had no eyes, no face, no mouth — of course. It was a shadow. But somehow, it looked directly at me. A moment passed. Then it snapped back to its proper place, aligning with my feet as if nothing had happened.

I stumbled back from the curb, breath caught in my throat.

From that point on, it came and went. Sometimes it followed closely, other times I’d find it ahead of me, waiting at the end of hallways or in reflections where it shouldn't be. It never hurt me. It never spoke.

But it watched. It learned.

I stopped trying to understand. There’s no guidebook for what to do when the shape of you decides it’s tired of following. I only knew it was changing, becoming more… separate.

Then came this morning.

I stood by the window. Light spilled in. My shadow didn’t appear. I turned. Nothing behind me. Not on the wall. Not on the floor.

Gone.

And for the first time in weeks, I felt hollow. A strange loneliness settled in. I realized — I missed it. That silent companion who had once copied me imperfectly, who had studied me like I was worth imitating.

It had left.

Now I’m wondering: where is it? What has it become?

And more importantly…

If it had a mind of its own — what does it want to do with it?