In The Mirror, She Blinked

In The Mirror, She Blinked

By [Azmat]

Lena had always been told she was "almost" something.

Almost famous.

Almost booked the lead.

Almost perfect.

She was a regular at auditions, occasional commercials, and endless callbacks that led to nothing. Her apartment walls were plastered with rejection—scripts she didn’t get, call sheets with her name crossed out, headshots curled at the edges like dried petals.

But her mirror… her mirror never rejected her.

It was an old, ornate thing she’d found at a thrift shop downtown. Heavy frame. Gilded edges. Too grand for the cracked plaster of her bedroom wall. She hung it anyway. It made her feel like she mattered. Like maybe she belonged somewhere better.

That’s when the habit started—watching herself. Not just checking her makeup or posture. Watching. Long, silent sessions of standing in front of the mirror, mimicking emotions, scenes, interviews. She played both herself and the celebrity she imagined she'd be someday.

Sometimes, when the apartment was too quiet and the city felt too far away, she whispered to her reflection:

“Why her and not me?”

It happened on a Sunday.

She had bombed yet another audition for a streaming series. The casting assistant barely looked up. “Thanks, Lena. We’ll let you know.”

She knew they wouldn’t.

That night, she came home, turned off every light but the one above her dresser, and stood in front of the mirror. Red eyes. Pale skin. Mascara like smudged ash.

She stared. And stared.

And the reflection stared back.

Same eyes. Same jaw. Same exhaustion.

But when she blinked—just once, slowly—her reflection didn’t.

It stared right through her.

Unblinking.

Waiting.

Then… it blinked. A beat too late.

Lena stumbled back. A chill climbed her spine.

She laughed it off—sort of.

“Long day,” she mumbled.

Long day, the mirror did not reply.

Over the next few nights, the mirror grew stranger.

Sometimes her reflection moved faster than she did. Other times slower. On Tuesday, she tilted her head left—and the reflection tilted right.

On Thursday, she caught it smirking while her own face remained neutral.

On Friday, it mouthed something she didn’t say.

By Saturday, she stopped laughing it off.

The change came quickly.

She woke to find her phone overflowing with notifications. A callback. A magazine request. Her Instagram following had jumped by ten thousand overnight.

She stared at the screen, stunned. Had someone made a mistake?

The mirror stood behind her in the corner, silent and tall. Her reflection smiled back.

That day, she booked a role in an indie film. The next week, she was trending on Twitter. Interviews, stylists, invitations—everything she'd ever wanted came crashing into her world like a wave.

But something was wrong.

She no longer recognized herself in photos. The face was hers, but it felt... borrowed. Like someone else was behind the wheel.

She couldn’t remember filming scenes she was praised for. Couldn’t recall saying some of the brilliant quotes the magazines printed.

Her dreams became strange. In them, she stood outside her own apartment, watching someone else live her life. She pounded on the windows, screaming, but no one heard.

Then one night, after a red-carpet event where she didn’t remember walking the carpet at all, she came home and faced the mirror.

The version inside smiled wider. Fuller. It looked radiant. Alive.

And Lena—standing there in designer heels she didn’t choose, in makeup she didn’t apply—felt like a shadow of herself.

She raised her hand to the glass. The reflection did too. They touched.

Then, the reflection leaned in… and whispered.

Not out loud. But directly into her mind, like it had always lived there.

“You asked for this. I just took the stage.”

Lena backed away. “I didn’t ask for this.”

The reflection didn’t follow. It stood straighter. Bolder. More real than she had ever been.

“You wanted to be seen,” it said without moving its lips.

“Now you are. You wanted to matter. Now you do. And you want to leave?”

Lena shook her head. “You can’t have my life.”

The mirror dimmed.

“Then take it back.”

She rushed forward, shattering the glass with her bare hands. Shards sliced deep, her blood like ink against the silver backing. She screamed as the glass fell around her.

But her reflection didn’t vanish.

It stepped out.

Glass crackling beneath perfect shoes. Hair smooth. Smile eternal.

It walked past her like she wasn’t even there.

And Lena—bleeding, broken, eyes wide with horror—watched her own life walk away.

She tried to follow. But when she reached the hallway… it was gone.

The mirror, now empty, sat quiet and cold behind her.

Only her eyes stared back.

Dull.

Unblinking.

Weeks passed.

Paparazzi snapped photos of Lena, radiant and successful.

The real Lena—if that’s what she still was—sat alone in a small room, one mirror on the wall.

She stared at it, hoping, praying…

One day, it might blink first.