The Last Message from My Future Self

It started with a simple email titled:

"READ THIS—From Future You."

At first, I laughed. Probably spam, or some over-the-top prank. But the sender's name froze me—my name. Same Gmail account I hadn’t used in five years. Curious, I opened it. The message was short but unsettling:

"You’ll see a red car at 8:13 AM tomorrow. If you take the right turn instead of the left, you’ll avoid the accident."

It sounded absurd. But the next morning, while driving to work, I caught myself checking the clock. 8:13 AM. A red sedan passed by. My heart stuttered. Half-mocking the message, I took the right turn. Ten minutes later, the radio reported a massive pile-up near the left exit—my usual route. I pulled over and stared into space. What was this? A freak coincidence… or something more?

Two days later, another message came.

"Cancel your coffee with Claire. She’ll tell you she’s sick anyway. She’s lying."

Claire was my ex, and we were supposed to meet “as friends.” Part of me hoped for reconciliation. But the message—again—felt eerily accurate. I texted to cancel. She replied:

“That’s fine. I was feeling sick anyway.”

Two-for-two. I felt an uncomfortable blend of relief and fear. If this was a scam, it was an impossibly accurate one. And if it wasn’t… what was it?

By the fourth message, the fear began turning into obsession.

"Apply for the job at NextGen Robotics. They will call you in 3 days. Say yes."

I had no memory of applying there, but I sent my resume anyway. Three days later, they called. “Hi, this is Samantha from NextGen…”

Then came more messages, more warnings:

“Don’t trust Alan.”

“Your mother’s going to call—act like you don’t know.”

“Open the blue envelope but not the yellow one.”

Each time, I obeyed. And each time, reality bent to match the instruction. I stopped questioning. My luck improved. My confidence grew. Life felt… prewritten. Like I was merely acting in a role I was told to play.

But then the final message arrived—its subject line different from all the rest.

“STOP READING MY MESSAGES.”

The body read:

“This is the last time you’ll hear from me. You’ve become addicted. You no longer trust your own mind. You’re erasing yourself. Listen carefully:

Whatever you do, do NOT look into the mirror at exactly 2:27 AM tonight.

You’ve been warned.

—You (from the end).”

The tone wasn’t helpful anymore—it was panicked. Urgent. I couldn’t sleep. My brain spun through questions: Why a mirror? Why that time? Was this all leading to something darker?

I set an alarm for 2:26 AM. I told myself I wouldn’t look… but of course I did. At exactly 2:27, I stood in front of the mirror. At first, everything looked normal. Just my tired eyes staring back. But then, slowly, my reflection smiled. I didn’t.

It leaned forward. I stood still, frozen in place. Its hand pressed against the glass.

Its lips moved without a sound: “You shouldn’t have looked.”

Fog formed on the inside of the mirror. My reflection no longer mirrored me—it moved on its own, blinked out of sync. I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. The glass shimmered, and then—darkness.

I woke up on the floor to morning light streaming through the window. My phone buzzed beside me. One unread email.

“You looked. Now it’s your turn. I’m free.”

No name. No sender. Nothing else. But I knew exactly what it meant.

Now, when I smile… the mirror doesn’t.

When I wave… it watches. But doesn’t follow.

And sometimes, when I turn away, I hear it move.