The Mirror in My Dream Apartment

The Mirror in My Dream Apartment

By Hasnain Shah

The apartment was almost perfect.

I’d toured it on a whim, scrolling through listings after midnight, the way you scroll when you’re lonely and half hoping the internet will hand you a new life. Pictures online rarely match reality, but this one did. Exposed brick, wide windows, a kitchen just big enough for two if they liked each other. Rent that wasn’t a scam.

And then there was the mirror.

It hung in the bedroom, a tall, oval thing with a black wooden frame, smooth and curved like the edge of a violin. The landlord told me it came with the unit. I didn’t question it; I didn’t want to seem difficult. Besides, it fit the aesthetic.

But the first night I slept there, I noticed something off.

At 3:17 a.m. — I remember the numbers exactly, because I kept checking the glowing red digits on my phone — I woke up thirsty. The kind of dry-mouth thirst that drags you up out of bed, stumbling toward the kitchen sink. On the way back, I glanced at the mirror.

What I saw wasn’t wrong, exactly. Just… better.

My reflection stood where I stood, but the skin looked clearer, the jaw sharper. The dark circles beneath my eyes, which I’d resigned myself to years ago, were gone. Even the way it stood — straighter, more confident, as though my bones had learned a posture I’d never mastered.

I told myself I was half-asleep. Sleep deprivation can do tricks like that.

But the next night, the reflection smiled first.

Over the next week, I began testing it.

I’d stand in front of the mirror in the evenings, toothbrush in hand, foam clinging to the corners of my mouth. My reflection brushed more gracefully, without the dripping mess I always made. When I changed clothes, its shirts seemed to fit just slightly better, as though tailored. Even when I grinned at myself, my reflection’s teeth flashed straighter, whiter, as if it had endured years of orthodontics I never had.

It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. In fact, its eyes seemed… sympathetic. Almost inviting.

I started to linger there before bed, watching it, wondering what it would be like to live as that version of me.

Things outside the apartment began to sour.

At work, I lost a client account because I fumbled a presentation. My boss said I didn’t “project confidence.” My friends, the ones who used to text me constantly, went silent for days. When I scrolled through social media, it was an endless parade of people doing better, traveling more, smiling wider.

And every night, the mirror reminded me: you could be this.

One Thursday, I got home to find the reflection already waiting.

I hadn’t walked past the mirror yet. I had just opened the door, dropped my bag, and when I turned my head — there it was. Standing, smiling faintly. Tilting its head in acknowledgment, as though to say, welcome back.

I froze. My body didn’t move, but its hand lifted in a small wave.

I didn’t wave back.

That night, I dreamed of the apartment — but reversed. The mirror-side was the real one. The better me lived there, in a space brighter and cleaner than mine, with books neatly stacked and dishes always washed. They had friends visiting, laughter spilling out of their mouth, while I stood on my side of the glass, watching like a beggar at a feast.

I woke up sweating, my sheets twisted around me like restraints.

The mirror was quiet. Too quiet.

On the tenth night, it spoke.

Not with sound, but with lips that moved in sync with mine, just slightly ahead. I whispered, “Who are you?” and its mouth shaped the words before mine even finished. Like an echo that had learned how to lead.

Its smile widened, slow and patient, and the air in the room grew heavier, like the pressure before a storm.

That was when I realized: it wasn’t reflecting me at all.

It was teaching me. Rehearsing me.

Practicing to wear me.

I’ve stopped turning on the bedroom lights.

I keep my head down, try not to look at it, but I can feel the weight of its eyes on me as I move around the room. The better me. The one who waits.

Last night, I found fingerprints on the inside of the glass.

They weren’t mine.

And tonight, the mirror is empty.