The Voice Behind the Mirror

The first time I heard the voice, I thought it was just my imagination. Mirrors have a way of playing tricks on tired minds, especially when the bathroom light flickers and shadows stretch across tiled walls. But the longer I stood there, toothbrush in hand, the more certain I became: the whisper wasn’t in my head. It was coming from the glass.

It was faint at first—soft enough that I dismissed it as the hum of the pipes. But as I leaned closer, the murmur sharpened into words.

“You look exhausted,” it said.

I froze. My own reflection stared back at me, its lips perfectly still.

A shiver crawled down my spine. I shook my head, forced a laugh, and told myself it was stress. Exams, work, endless responsibilities—it was catching up to me. Easy explanation.

But the voice returned the next night.

“You don’t look happy,” it whispered, my reflection tilting its head just slightly, like it was studying me from the other side.

My throat tightened. “Who’s there?” I whispered back, half-hoping I was losing my mind—because madness, at least, was easier to explain than a talking reflection.

The mirror smiled. My smile, but stretched wider.

“I am you,” it said. “The real you.”

I stumbled back, my heartbeat pounding so loud it drowned out the dripping faucet. I wanted to run, but my legs refused to move.

Over the following days, the voice kept coming back. At first, it only spoke when I was near the bathroom mirror. Then, gradually, it began to seep into every reflection I passed. Storefront windows. Darkened computer screens. Even the surface of my morning coffee seemed to ripple with whispers.

Its questions started innocent enough.

“What do you want most in life?”

“Why do you hide so much of yourself?”

But soon, they turned sharper, hungrier.

“You should stop pretending.”

“You should show them what you’re really capable of.”

I avoided mirrors, draped them with blankets, turned them to face the walls. But no matter what I did, I could feel the reflection waiting for me.

One night, curiosity won. I tore the cover from the bathroom mirror and forced myself to look. My reflection was already smiling, lips still, eyes glinting with a strange knowing.

“You’ve hidden me long enough,” the voice said, clear and strong now. “Step closer.”

My chest tightened. Against every instinct, I leaned toward the glass. It shimmered, the surface rippling like disturbed water. I should have run, but something in its tone rooted me in place.

“Let me out,” it urged. “Or let me in.”

I reached forward, trembling, and touched the glass. It was warm, not cold, as if blood ran beneath its surface. The warmth spread up my arm, pulling me in deeper.

“Just a little closer,” it coaxed. “I’ll show you the life you’ve always wanted.”

A part of me wanted to fight, to yank my hand back, but another part—darker, more desperate—wondered what it would be like to stop feeling invisible. To be seen. To be powerful.

The glass clung to me, pulling harder. My arm disappeared past the wrist, swallowed by shimmering darkness. The reflection’s smile widened unnaturally, its eyes burning brighter.

“You belong here,” it whispered.

The last thing I remember is the cold rushing over me, sinking deep into my chest as the bathroom dissolved into shadows.

Now, when I look out from the other side, I see my body moving around the apartment. It smiles with my face, speaks with my voice. To the world, nothing has changed.

But I know better.

I pound against the glass, screaming until my throat feels raw, but no one hears me. My reflection does, though—and it loves the silence it has stolen.

So if you ever hear a voice whispering from behind your mirror, don’t lean closer. Don’t answer. Don’t let curiosity win.

Because once you look long enough, the voice doesn’t just follow. It replaces you.