The other me woke up first

The first thing I remember was the light — sharp, unnatural. My eyelids refused to cooperate. My limbs were limp, soaked in sweat, tingling like I’d just returned to them after years. There was a hum in the ceiling. A coldness in the floor. And someone breathing.

But I was alone.

I sat up.

That was the first mistake.

My head screamed with static. My memories were… backward. I could remember things that hadn’t happened — yet. My phone rang before it received the call. The faucet dripped in reverse. I saw steam curling back into the mug.

That was when I noticed the coffee.

Still warm.

Still full.

I don’t drink coffee.

Not anymore.

The apartment was mine, yet… not. Subtly altered. The light switch was on the wrong side. My favorite chair had a tear it didn’t used to have. The window looked out on a street I recognized, but the billboard outside advertised a product I swear didn’t exist yesterday.

It got worse the deeper I looked. My laptop password worked — but the desktop background was wrong. An image of me smiling… a photo I don’t recall taking. With someone standing just behind me, half in shadow.

I zoomed in.

The face was mine.

They told me, years ago, after the first episode, that dissociation can fracture the mind. That my psychosis would twist reality into threats, turn shadows into silhouettes, mirrors into portals.

But this was different.

I wasn’t losing my mind.

I was sharing it.

The first real clue came from the bathroom mirror. I’d been avoiding it, but curiosity and dread have a rhythm. At 3:12 a.m., I approached.

The light flickered as I stepped in.

In the mirror, my reflection lagged.

Not a trick of the light. Not imagination. It was delayed — just half a second. But enough. Enough for the terror to bloom.

I raised my hand.

The reflection didn't.

It watched me.

Then it smiled.

I didn’t sleep after that.

I stayed on the couch with the lights on, flipping through old notebooks, pages of therapy entries, trying to trace where I went wrong. Trying to convince myself that maybe this was a relapse.

Maybe I was unwell.

But around dawn, I heard the door to the bedroom creak open.

And the floorboards shift.

Someone — barefoot — moving across the hallway. Deliberate.

I held my breath.

When I turned, no one was there.

Only a note on the coffee table. Written in my handwriting.

“I woke up first.

You weren’t supposed to.

Go back to sleep.

—Me.”

I called Dr. Simmons. Left five voicemails. He didn’t pick up.

I tried going outside, but the door wouldn’t open. Not jammed — just refused to be a door. The knob turned endlessly, the lock clicked, but it wouldn’t open. The windows showed the street, but glass wouldn’t shatter.

I screamed. I tore the curtains down. I banged my head against the wall.

But nothing changed.

I wasn’t trapped in my apartment.

I was trapped in his.

By nightfall, the whispers started. Low murmurs from the walls, from beneath the bed. My voice, but warped — slowed. Like I was listening to recordings of myself having conversations I never remembered having.

I pressed my ear to the floor.

And I heard laughter.

The next morning — or what passed for morning — I found the bedroom door ajar again. This time, I entered.

The bed was made. The scent of cologne I didn’t wear hung in the air. On the nightstand, a watch I’d lost months ago. On the floor, my shoes — polished.

And hanging in the closet — a suit.

Not mine.

But my size.

I checked the mirror again.

He was grinning now.

He waved.

I did not.

That night, I gave up trying to escape.

I opened my notebook. Wrote everything. Every detail. Every anomaly.

Halfway through a sentence, the ink changed color.

Blue to black.

I didn’t change pens.

Then, under my handwriting, a different line appeared. As if someone else was writing beneath the surface of the page:

“You're the copy.

I’m the original.

I'm just letting you burn out.”

I slammed the book shut.

And the lights died.

Pitch black.

Then — the mirror flickered on. Only the mirror. Like a screen.

He stood there. My face — sharper. More assured. Better posture. No tremor. No dark circles.

Perfect.

He placed his hand on the inside of the glass.

And I felt it on my own palm.

Warm.

Real.

He spoke.

Not with sound — but with thought.

“You’re the glitch. I woke up first. You weren’t meant to persist.”

I screamed back, I am real.

He tilted his head.

“Prove it.”

I ran.

To the door.

To the walls.

I punched the mirror — it shattered, but no shards fell. The pieces hung midair, reflecting him at every angle.

Laughing now.

Then — a scream.

From the kitchen.

My scream.

But I was here.

So who was that?

I found the kettle boiling. The mug full. Steam rising again — backward. Time stuttering. The windows blinked between night and day like broken eyelids.

And on the counter — another note.

This one burned at the edges, as if written with fire.

“You’ve taken too long.

I’m staying.

Rest now.

You’re fading.”

I collapsed.

The lights hummed a lullaby.

The hum from the ceiling was louder.

The floor was colder.

My body felt heavy.

Sleep came like gravity.

I woke up.

In the mirror.

He stood outside, now smiling gently, sipping coffee.

I raised my hand to pound the glass — but it didn’t move.

Because the other me woke up first.

And I’m still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

While he lives my life.