My Reflection Just Blinked When I Didn't. Now It Won't Stop Smiling.

My Reflection Just Blinked When I Didn't. Now It Won't Stop Smiling.
It started on a Tuesday morning. I was brushing my teeth, groggy from a lack of sleep, staring blankly into the bathroom mirror. It was a mundane routine I had done thousands of times. I spat into the sink, rinsed my mouth, and looked up to wipe my face.
That’s when it happened.
I stared at myself—my tired eyes, the stubble on my chin. And then, my reflection blinked.
I didn't blink. My eyes were wide open, stinging slightly from the dry air. But the man in the mirror closed his eyes for a split second and opened them again.
I froze, the towel dropping from my hands. "I'm just tired," I whispered to the empty bathroom. "Hallucinations. Sleep deprivation."
I splashed cold water on my face and left for work. I tried to put it out of my mind, but a cold knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach all day.
When I got home that evening, I avoided the hallway mirror. I avoided the reflection in the microwave door. But eventually, I had to use the bathroom.
I walked in, keeping my head down. I washed my hands. Slowly, terrified of what I might see, I lifted my gaze.
My reflection was there. But it wasn't mimicking me anymore.
I was standing still, my hands gripping the edge of the porcelain sink so hard my knuckles were white.
The reflection was standing relaxed, its arms crossed over its chest.
And it was smiling.
It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a predatory, mocking grin that stretched too wide, showing too many teeth. It was the smile of someone who knows a secret that is about to destroy you.
I stumbled back, knocking over a bottle of shampoo. "What are you?" I stammered.
The reflection didn't speak. It just tilted its head to the side, mimicking a confused puppy, but the malicious smile never left its face. Then, it raised a hand and pointed at me. Not at my face, but behind me.
I spun around, heart hammering, expecting to see a intruder. The bathroom was empty. The door was locked.
When I turned back to the mirror, the reflection was closer. It looked like it was pressed right up against the glass from the inside. Its breath was fogging up the mirror surface—from the other side.
I ran. I ran out of the bathroom, slammed the door, and pushed a heavy dresser against it.
That was three hours ago.
I am sitting in my living room now. I have covered every reflective surface in the house. The TV screen is draped with a blanket. The windows are covered with cardboard. I even turned my phone screen away from me.
But I can hear it.
From the bathroom, there is a sound. It’s a tapping sound. Not soft, tentative tapping. It is the sound of hard knuckles rapping against glass.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
And then, a voice. It sounds exactly like mine, but distorted, as if spoken through water.
"Let me out, David. It’s my turn to be real. You’ve been tired for so long. Just switch places with me."
The tapping is getting harder. I can hear the glass beginning to crack. I realized too late that mirrors aren't just surfaces that reflect light. They are windows. And I think the glass was the only thing keeping the window shut.
I can hear the bathroom door handle turning. The dresser is heavy, but the thing on the other side sounds strong. And the worst part? As I look at the black screen of my laptop sitting on the coffee table, I can see a faint reflection of myself in the dark monitor.
I’m crying.
But the reflection in the laptop screen is laughing.