The last message

I woke up to the familiar buzz of my phone. At first, I thought it was just another notification from a friend or one of those annoying app alerts. But when I unlocked it, my heart skipped a beat.

An unknown number had sent me a message:

*"I know what you did."*

I stared at it for a long time, trying to laugh it off. Spam, probably. Some random prankster. I even typed a quick reply: *“Wrong number.”* But no response came.

Then my phone buzzed again. Another message from the same number:

*"Check under your bed."*

My hands froze. A prank? It had to be. I was alone in my apartment. Slowly, cautiously, I knelt down and peeked under the bed. Nothing. Just dust, a pair of old sneakers, and the shadow of the morning light filtering through the window. My laugh felt hollow when I tried to brush it off. Someone was messing with me.

Before I could breathe again, the third message arrived:

*"Look in the mirror."*

I didn’t want to, but something inside me couldn’t resist. My feet moved on their own as I walked toward the bathroom. The door creaked as I opened it, my reflection staring back at me like it always did.

At first, everything seemed normal. Then, slowly… I realized it wasn’t me. Not really. The eyes were the same, the hair the same, but the smile… the smile was wrong. Wide, unnatural, almost… pleased.

*"Finally, we meet."*

I stumbled backward, my phone slipping from my hand and shattering on the tile. I screamed, but no sound came out. My reflection stepped closer, tilting its head, mimicking me, mocking me.

Then, the fourth message popped up on the cracked screen. My own number was sending it.

*"You’ve been warned."*

Panic gripped me. I ran out of the bathroom, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. But everywhere I went, my reflection was there. In the window, in the shiny surface of the microwave, in the black s.creen of my laptop. It followed me. It wasn’t real, yet it was impossible to ignore.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes—I couldn’t tell. Time had stopped. Finally, I remembered the old drawer in my bedroom, where I kept my childhood diary. I opened it, searching desperately for anything that might explain this nightmare. There, tucked in the last page, was a folded note I didn’t recognize:

*"Some messages aren’t meant to be ignored. You can’t hide from yourself."*

The words blurred before my eyes. I dropped the diary. And then I understood. The messages weren’t from a stranger. They weren’t even from someone else. They were from me—well, a version of me I had ignored for far too long. My guilt, my secrets, my hidden fears… they had finally found a way to speak.

When I looked back at the mirror, it smiled again. This time, I did too, reluctantly, knowing I had no choice but to face what I had buried inside myself. The reflection didn’t vanish. It waited, patient, eternal. And I realized, maybe some messages aren’t warnings. Maybe they are reminders.

A notification pinged one last time. I picked up the phone, trembling.

*"Are you ready to admit the truth?"*

And for the first time, I answered honestly.

*"Yes."*

Silence. Then, nothing