The Mirror That Refused to Reflect Me

It began on a Thursday. I remember because it was raining, and my socks were soaked from the puddles on the hallway floor of our damp old apartment.

I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, brushing my hair like I always did before class, when I noticed something off.

I blinked.

The reflection blinked too—except her left eye was gone. Not bloody or gouged out. Just… not there. Like someone had cut it from a photograph and left an empty patch behind.

I leaned closer, breath fogging the glass.

“What the hell…”

I rubbed my eyes, splashed cold water on my face, and checked again. Still gone. I stepped back, heart pounding. But the rest of me looked fine.

Maybe I was tired.

Maybe it was stress.

Finals were creeping up. I hadn’t slept well. That was it, right?

I wanted to believe that.

Friday

I returned to the mirror hesitantly, not even sure what I expected.

And then… my left arm was gone in the reflection.

Gone.

Just… gone. As if someone had forgotten to paint it in.

I held my arm up. It was there—warm, fleshy, trembling. I waved it. The reflection didn’t copy. It stood still, unmoving, face hollow.

I couldn’t breathe.

I reached out to touch the glass.

Cold. Solid. Real.

But the girl behind it was fading.

I covered the mirror with a sheet that night, but I dreamed of it anyway — not as furniture, but as a doorway. A frame to somewhere else. Somewhere I was being pulled.

Saturday Night – 2:46 AM

I woke up to the sound of whispering.

There was no one else in the room. My roommate Nadia was asleep in the next room. But I knew the whispers came from the mirror.

From her.

I lifted the sheet slowly. My heart beat so hard it echoed in my ears.

She was still in the mirror.

Now she had both arms.

Both eyes.

A face. A smile.

She looked… exactly like me. Only her eyes were colder. Her smile didn’t wrinkle her cheeks. Her movements were off — like someone acting human but missing the tiny details.

And I… had no reflection at all.

I screamed.

Nadia rushed in, flipping the light.

“What the hell, Sara?!”

I was on the floor, shaking.

I pointed. “The mirror… she’s—”

Nadia looked at it, confused. “It’s just you. What are you talking about?”

“No, it’s not me! That’s not me!” I shouted.

She stared at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.

She gave me sleeping pills. I didn’t take them. I sat awake, watching that mirror. Watching her… as she watched me.

Sunday – Memories Resurface

I started thinking about my childhood.

There was a moment I never told anyone about.

When I was six, I got lost in a carnival. I wandered into a funhouse of mirrors and couldn’t find my way out. I remember crying, pressing my tiny hands to the mirrored walls.

But one of the mirrors had a version of me who didn’t cry. She just stood there… watching me, smiling.

I was found hours later, shaking, near catatonic. My mother thought I was just scared.

I never told her what I saw.

But now… I think she’s back.

Monday – The Takeover

My professors emailed saying I had missed my presentations.

But I remember giving them.

I even got a text from Nadia: “You’re acting better today. Sorry I got mad at you.”

But I hadn’t left the room all day.

Then who did?

I checked my phone. My call history showed an outgoing call to my mother. A ten-minute conversation.

But I hadn’t touched my phone.

In the mirror, she was brushing her hair. Wearing my clothes. Her eyes flicked up — and she smiled.

I screamed and threw my lamp at the glass. It shattered. Finally, I thought. It’s over.

But when I looked again… it was intact.

No crack. No sign of damage.

Just her.

Smiling wider now.

Stronger.

The Disappearance

Over the next days, my body felt… hollow.

I no longer felt temperature. My voice cracked and faded. People didn’t respond when I spoke.

I passed a group of friends at the café and waved. No one saw me.

I checked social media — my account had been active. New stories posted. Selfies I didn’t take.

She had my face.

My voice.

My life.

And no one noticed I was gone.

The Final Shift

Last night, I stood before the mirror again.

She looked straight into my eyes — my last piece of identity. She raised her hand. So did I.

But then… she stepped forward.

Right up to the glass.

Closer than any reflection could.

She whispered:

"You left the door open, Sara. And I walked through."

Then she pressed her hand to the glass.

And mine vanished.

Now

I write this not with pen, but by scratching words on the inside of the mirror.

With broken nails and fading memory.

I scream, but no one hears me.

Because she walks outside.

She breathes.

She smiles.

She lives.

But she is not me.

And I am not real anymore.

✍️ Author’s Note:

This is fiction… or so we hope.

Just remember — if your reflection ever moves a second too late, or smiles when you don’t…

Maybe it’s already too late.

You said:

kya ye author note b us me paste kro

ChatGPT said:

Jee haan, Author’s Note ko story ka part banana Vocal Media par ek s