The Man Who Lives in My Mirror

I’ve always had a strange relationship with mirrors.

There’s something too quiet about them.

Like they’re watching, not just reflecting.

It started with the smallest things.

I’d walk past the mirror and think I saw myself blink — just a second too late.

Or I’d brush my hair and catch a flicker of a smile that I didn’t make.

I blamed it on exhaustion.

I blamed it on imagination.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

The First Time He Moved

It was around 2 a.m. I was in my room, brushing my teeth in front of the mirror. I leaned closer to pop a pimple (don’t judge me) — and then I froze.

Because he didn’t.

My reflection.

He didn’t move.

I leaned in.

He stood still.

Eyes wide open.

Staring at me.

Then… he smiled.

Not Quite Me

The next night, I came back to the mirror, hoping it was a dream. But there he was.

Same face. Same body. But his eyes… they weren’t mine.

He wasn’t copying me anymore.

He was watching me. Studying me.

Like I was the one trapped behind the glass.

I tested it.

I raised my left hand. He raised his right.

I spun. He didn’t move.

I stuck out my tongue.

He winked.

Whispered Warnings

It got worse.

I’d wake up and hear whispers in the dark.

“Don’t turn around,” he’d say.

“Don’t look behind the glass.”

My lights would flicker.

My mirror fogged itself from the inside.

Once, I found the words “LET ME OUT” written across it — with no sign of how.

I stopped using the mirror.

Covered it with a blanket.

Slept facing the wall.

But I could still feel him there.

Smiling.

Waiting.

A Visit to the Antique Shop

Desperate for answers, I went back to the old antique shop where I’d bought the mirror months ago.

The woman at the counter looked at me, pale.

“You still have it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Is there something wrong with it?”

She didn’t answer.

Just scribbled a name on paper and said,

“If he starts talking to you... it’s already too late.”

I laughed nervously.

She didn’t.

The Night I Moved First

One night, I decided to test him.

To prove to myself that I still had control.

I stared at the mirror.

Waited for him.

He appeared, of course.

Same crooked grin.

Same eyes that weren’t mine.

I raised my hand.

He didn’t follow.

I whispered, “Who are you?”

He mouthed something.

I couldn’t hear it — but I knew what he said.

“I’m you. But freer.”

Then he pressed his palm to the glass.

And my mirror cracked — from the inside.

Final Thought

People say mirrors reflect who we are.

But what if they show something else — something trapped, something watching?

He doesn’t appear every night anymore.

But sometimes, when I pass by that mirror too quickly, I catch him standing there…

Not mimicking.

Not smiling.

Just watching.

Patient.

And one day, I know — he’ll reach out again.

And this time, I’m not sure I’ll be the one looking in.

Sometimes I wonder… what if he already stepped out?

What if I’m the one trapped now — just a silent copy, doing what’s expected, reflecting the world but not really living?

Maybe that’s why I feel a little more distant.

A little colder.

A little… not me.

Maybe that’s the price of staring too long into your own eyes —

You start to lose yourself in someone else’s.

So if you ever catch your reflection doing something strange…

Don’t smile back.

Don’t stay too long.

And whatever you do — don’t blink.