The Day My Reflection Blinked First

I always thought mirrors were just glass. A trick of reflection. A perfect copy.

Until one day, mine blinked… and I didn’t.

It was a normal Thursday evening, or at least I thought so. The kind of day where nothing sticks in your memory because it all feels too ordinary. The same walk home. The same cup of tea. The same creak in the hallway floorboards.

But something had been... off lately. Little things. Like waking up and finding my toothbrush wet when I hadn’t brushed yet. Or hearing footsteps echo mine—just a split second too late—as if someone were imitating me from a distance.

Still, I blamed it on stress. Overwork. Bad sleep.

But that night, everything changed.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my hair. I wasn’t really looking at myself, just staring into that glazed space people use when they’re lost in thought. I pulled the brush through one final time and blinked—

But my reflection didn’t.

I froze.

My heart stopped, then pounded into my throat. I leaned forward, eyes wide. My reflection stared back, blank-faced. Unblinking. Then—slowly—it blinked.

Late. Delayed. On its own.

I stumbled backward, knocking the brush into the sink.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no. I’m tired. That didn’t just happen.”

But it had. I knew it had.

I stepped forward again. My reflection copied me. Perfectly. I lifted one hand—so did it. I tilted my head—so did it. But it was like it was... catching up. A second too late. Like watching myself on a laggy video call.

And then, as I leaned closer, it smiled. I didn’t.

That was the first night.

For days after, I avoided mirrors. Brushed my teeth in the dark. Got dressed facing the wall. But they’re everywhere—mirrors. Store windows, black phone screens, elevator doors.

It started showing up in all of them.

And it wasn’t always alone.

Sometimes, I’d catch a shadow just behind my reflection. A blur of something watching me. I’d turn—but nothing would be there.

I thought I was going insane.

Then came the bathroom incident.

I had to look. I had to know I was still me. I turned on the light, slowly raised my eyes to the mirror.

And she was already there.

Not me.

Her.

She looked like me. Every freckle. Every strand of hair. But her eyes… her eyes were hollow. And she was smiling.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe. But she did.

She leaned in and mouthed something I couldn't hear. Then she raised her hand and placed her palm flat on the inside of the mirror.

I felt cold on my cheek, like breath.

I tried telling my friends. They laughed, said I was watching too many horror movies. Maybe they were right.

Until my roommate saw it too.

She screamed so loud, the neighbors came. But by then, the mirror was normal again. Her hands shook as she told them, “It wasn’t her. Her reflection—it smiled first. It moved first. It moved before she did.”

That was three days ago.

She moved out yesterday.

Now I sleep with the lights on. I cover all the mirrors at night. But I can feel her. Watching.

And sometimes, I hear a knock from the bathroom… from the inside.

She wants out.

And I don’t think she’s me anymore.

But tonight… something’s different.

The mirrors are still covered. Yet I woke up to a sound—a whisper—and the cloth on the hallway mirror was on the floor.

I walked past it without looking. I held my breath the entire time.

And then I heard it.

The voice.

Low, gentle, almost kind.

“Let me live a day in your world,” it said. “You’ve had so many already.”

I haven’t turned around yet.

But I can see the reflection in the glass behind me.

She’s standing there, waiting, hand outstretched, smiling.

This time, she won’t blink first.

This time, I think… I might.