“The Person in My Photos Doesn’t Exist”

I’ve never liked having my picture taken.

Not because I’m self-conscious or anything. I just never saw the point. Life was for living, not documenting. At least, that’s what I told people. Truthfully, I hated seeing myself frozen in time, like each photo held a version of me I couldn’t recognize.

So I stuck to landscapes. Skies. Street corners. Coffee cups. Simple things.

And I’ve always lived alone.

That’s what makes this so hard to explain.

It started two weeks ago when I was cleaning out my phone's storage. Scrolling through random pictures I’d taken over the months. A photo of the alley near my apartment. One of the bakeries is across the street. A few night shots of the rain outside my window.

Then I saw one I didn’t remember taking.

It was my living room my exact setup. The gray couch, the leaning bookshelf, the floor lamp with the broken bulb.

And in the reflection of the TV screen, someone was standing behind the couch.

I stared at the image for a long time. The figure was blurred, shadowy. Almost shapeless. But I could swear it was someone.

I laughed it off. Maybe a glitch. Maybe I caught my own shadow from some weird angle.

Until I saw the next photo.

And the next.

In one, the figure was closer, still behind the couch, but turned toward the camera.

In another, he was by the hallway door.

Then came the worst one.

A close-up of my bathroom mirror.

My toothbrush was visible on the counter. The hand towel was hanging crooked, just like I’d left it.

And there, next to the edge of the mirror, half a face.

Pale skin. Dark eyes. No expression.

It was my face.

But I didn’t take the photo.

And I’ve never stood that close to the mirror without noticing something like that.

I felt sick. Cold sweat gathered on the back of my neck.

I went back and looked at the image data.

Time taken: 3:33 AM.

Camera used: My phone.

I was asleep at 3:33 AM. Alone.

I always sleep with my door locked. My windows shut.

I thought maybe it was a hack. Some freak photo editing prank. Maybe someone got into my phone.

So I reset everything. New passwords. Factory reset.

And I stopped taking pictures altogether.

But the photos kept appearing.

Every morning, one or two new images in my gallery. Each more disturbing than the last.

In one, I was sleeping. The photo was taken from the foot of my bed.

In another, the figure was my twin, or whatever it was, sitting at my kitchen table. Hands folded. Looking directly at the camera.

I checked my apartment. Every inch. Nothing.

No signs of entry. No hidden devices. No neighbors with access.

But each night, I’d dream the same dream:

Waking up and finding myself already awake, standing at the foot of my own bed, smiling.

Last night, I decided to test it.

I set up a polaroid camera in my room, aimed at the doorway. Old-school. No Wi-Fi. No remote control. Just film and flash.

I fell asleep with the light on.

This morning, I found the polaroid.

The film had developed.

And there I was lying in bed.

But standing in the doorway was someone who looked exactly like me.

Only his eyes were wide. Lifeless. Like glass.

He wasn’t smiling. He was watching.

I ran.

I packed a bag and left my apartment. I’m in a hotel now. I haven’t touched my phone in 24 hours.

Just now, a knock came at the door.

No one was there.

But on the floor was a photograph.

New. Clean.

It shows me sitting in this exact hotel room, writing this story on my laptop.

And behind me, in the corner, blurred but visible...

He’s still watching.

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Submitted By: Shinwari Khan

Contact: [email protected]

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