THE MIRROR THAT LEARNED MY NAME

I covered the mirror because it wouldn’t stop smiling.

At first, I thought it was just exhaustion. Night shifts mess with your head, especially when you live alone. Faces blur. Reflections lag. You see things that aren’t there.

But this was different.

I noticed it while brushing my teeth.

My mouth stopped moving before my reflection’s did.

Just for a second.

I froze, toothpaste dripping onto my hand. My reflection finished the motion, wiped its mouth, and then—smiled.

I hadn’t.

I stepped back.

The reflection didn’t.

It stayed close to the glass, eyes wide and eager, like it had been waiting for me to notice.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Not funny.”

The reflection’s lips moved.

You finally saw me.

I smashed a towel over the mirror and stumbled out of the bathroom, heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. I didn’t sleep. I sat on my bed until morning, lights on, pretending this was just a stress response.

By daylight, courage returned.

I uncovered the mirror.

Normal.

Perfectly normal.

Same tired face. Same scar on my chin. Same hollow eyes.

I laughed shakily and went to work.

That night, the mirror was uncovered again.

I don’t remember doing it.

I woke up standing in front of it.

Three a.m.

The reflection wasn’t copying me anymore.

It was breathing.

Slow. Deep. Fogging the glass from the inside.

“You left it covered,” it said gently, in my voice but smoother. Healthier. “That hurt.”

I tried to run.

My body didn’t respond.

The reflection raised its hand.

So did mine.

Not because I wanted to.

“You use me every day,” it continued. “To check yourself. To fix yourself. To hate yourself. You gave me shape.”

Tears streamed down my face.

“I’m not real,” I whispered. “You’re not real.”

The reflection pressed its palm against the glass.

Something pushed back from my side.

The mirror softened.

Not cracked.

Softened.

Like skin.

“You look at me more than you look at anyone else,” it said. “You taught me how to be you.”

The surface rippled.

My fingers sank into it.

Pain exploded as the glass tightened around my hand, slicing deep without breaking the skin. I screamed as the mirror pulled, stretching my arm like taffy.

Inside the mirror, I saw a room.

A room filled with reflections.

Hundreds of them.

All of me.

Some crying. Some screaming. Some smiling too wide.

“Every time you avoided yourself,” the reflection said, leaning closer, “you fed us.”

I was dragged forward, chest pressed against the glass. My face sank into it, cold and wet, like being swallowed by ice water and muscle at the same time.

I felt myself split.

A tearing sensation behind my eyes, like something being peeled out through my pupils.

Memories spilled—every shameful thought, every insult I’d whispered to myself, every night I stared into mirrors and hated what I saw.

The reflections grew clearer.

Stronger.

My double stepped out of the mirror.

He was perfect.

Posture straight. Skin unblemished. Eyes confident.

He took my place effortlessly.

I fell inside.

The mirror sealed behind me with a soft, satisfied sigh.

Inside, there was no floor.

Just glass.

I pressed my palms against it from the wrong side, screaming silently as my double tested his new body, smiling at how easily it moved.

He leaned close to the mirror.

“I’ll take good care of our life,” he whispered. “You rest.”

The bathroom light turned off.

Darkness swallowed me.

Now I live where reflections live.

I watch people brush their teeth. Fix their hair. Examine their flaws.

Sometimes, one of them notices.

Sometimes, they smile when they shouldn’t.

And when they do—

We make room.