The Shadow in the Mirror

The Shadow in the Mirror

I first noticed the shadow in the mirror when I was eleven.

It was a rainy Tuesday — one of those afternoons where the sky sulks, and the wind whistles secrets between windowsills. I was brushing my teeth when something flickered in the corner of the bathroom mirror. I turned around, fast. Nothing there.

But in the reflection…

There was something. Someone.

A silhouette stood just behind me — darker than shadow, stiller than silence.

And then it blinked.

I screamed so loud my father dropped his coffee in the kitchen. He came running, half-convinced I’d electrocuted myself. I told him about the shadow. He checked behind the shower curtain, opened every drawer like I was hiding a full-grown man in a sink. Nothing.

He blamed it on the storm.

“It’s just your imagination,” he said, tousling my hair.

But the thing is — my imagination never blinked.

For years, I tried to forget it. Childhood fears tend to dissolve in the acid of adolescence. I outgrew monsters under the bed, clowns, ghosts, and those dreams where my teeth crumbled like sand.

But the mirror stayed different.

I always brushed my teeth slightly off-center. Avoided full-length mirrors at night. Made sure the hallway light was on when I passed the big one in the living room.

Still, life moved on. High school. College. My first apartment. Somewhere along the way, the shadow disappeared — or at least, I convinced myself it had.

Until last Tuesday.

I’d been running late for work. I threw on my coat, half-shaved, and went to the mirror to adjust my tie.

And there it was again.

No slow fade-in. No suspense. It was just there — behind me. As if it had been waiting.

Its form was clearer now. Taller than me by a foot, arms long enough to brush the edges of the frame, and a face made entirely of darkness. No eyes, but it was looking at me. Through me.

I froze.

The reflection smiled.

But I wasn’t smiling.

That’s when I knew: it wasn’t a shadow of me. It was something else. Something… tethered.

Since then, things have changed.

Mirrors don’t reflect right anymore. I’ll be sitting still, and my reflection will blink first. Or tilt its head just a second too late. I even tried taking a photo — but in the image, I’m alone. No background. Just my face, floating in grayscale.

I tried smashing one. Just one. The hallway mirror.

Glass exploded like frozen water — but my reflection didn’t shatter. It stood there, behind the cracks, unharmed.

Watching.

Yesterday, I covered every mirror in my apartment. Sheets, blankets, duct tape. I even got rid of my phone’s front camera. But the reflection still finds me. In puddles. In glass doors. In dark windows at night.

It’s always behind me.

And now… it talks.

Not out loud. Not in words. But in thoughts. Impressions. Like memories that aren’t mine. It shows me things — visions of a life I’ve never lived. A version of me who made different choices. Who said yes when I said no. Who stayed when I ran.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's not just a reflection — but a version of me that grew up in the mirror instead of the world. A parallel self, shaped by silence and silver and shadow.

Last night, it asked to trade places.

Not in words — but in feeling. A deep, bone-sick ache, like longing and hunger mixed. It wanted out.

And for a moment, I considered it.

What if I did? What if I stepped backward, through the glass, and let the shadow live this life for a while? Maybe it would be better at it. Maybe it wouldn’t be scared all the time. Maybe it would smile back when strangers smile first.

But I didn’t step back. Not yet.

Now, I sit here writing this, unsure if this is a warning… or a confession.

Because I looked in the mirror again this morning.

And for the first time, it wasn’t behind me.

It was in my place.

Smiling.

And I was the one in the reflection — watching, blinking too late, mouthing the words no one else can hear.