The Man in the Reflection Isn’t Me

The Man in the Reflection Isn’t Me

It began the night I decided to quit my job.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth. I was exhausted, half-zoned out, staring at myself. But for a second — just a flicker — he didn’t move when I did.

I thought I imagined it.

People see weird things when they’re tired. A delay in brain processing, some glitch between perception and movement. I laughed it off, rinsed my mouth, and went to bed.

The next night, it happened again.

But longer.

I smiled. He didn’t.

I tilted my head. He blinked first.

I stepped back. He didn’t move at all.

⸻

The third night, I filmed it.

When I replayed the video, everything looked normal.

But when I looked back at the mirror in real time, he was already halfway through a grin I hadn’t started yet.

⸻

That’s when I stopped looking at mirrors.

I covered the bathroom one with a towel. Avoided the hallway’s reflective photo frames. I even disabled the selfie camera on my phone. But reflections are sneaky — they live in spoons, windows, glass doors, even in the shine of a black TV screen.

He was always there.

Watching.

Closer every day.

⸻

He looked exactly like me. Same scar on the jaw. Same birthmark near the temple. But it was the energy — the way he wore my face like a costume. A little too controlled. A little too confident.

And he was starting to smile a lot more.

Not in a friendly way. Not mocking. Just calm. Like he knew something I didn’t.

⸻

I called my brother.

He listened, half-concerned, and told me I needed rest.

I wasn’t sleeping.

He said to get outside, clear my head.

I tried. I really did.

But when I passed a store window downtown, I caught a glimpse of myself standing still while I kept walking.

That was the last time I left the apartment.

⸻

Time got strange.

Days blurred.

I turned every mirror face-down or threw them away.

I stopped brushing my hair just to avoid looking in the chrome toaster.

I even covered the microwave with black tape.

But he still found me.

In the puddle by the sink.

In the dark screen of my phone.

Even in my eyes when I walked by a glass door too quickly.

And every time, he was closer.

⸻

Then, one night, he spoke.

Not through the mirror.

From behind it.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

I froze.

“You don’t have to keep pretending. I can take it from here.”

My body went cold.

He wasn’t mimicking anymore.

He was preparing.

⸻

The next morning, I woke up to find the bathroom mirror perfectly hung on the wall.

I hadn’t put it back.

The wall had been bare for a week — but there it was. Clean. Centered. Waiting.

And so was he.

He stood there smiling, while I stood still.

He waved first.

I didn’t wave back.

⸻

I whispered, “What do you want?”

He mouthed something. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Your turn is over.”

⸻

Now I’m writing this down. It’s 11:49 PM. Midnight feels like the end — or maybe the beginning.

He’s behind the mirror again. I can feel him pacing. Smiling.

Practicing.

He wants my place.

⸻

If this post gets published…

If you see someone tomorrow who looks like me, talks like me, acts just a bit too perfect — it isn’t me.

Because I’m still in here.

Behind the glass.

Trapped.

Watching.

And hoping you’ll notice before it’s too late.