The Night My Reflection Walked Away

"Some mirrors don’t just reflect—they warn. One night, a medical student’s reflection walks away, leaving him to confront his choices and hidden fears."
I never believed in ghosts. Even as a child, when cousins whispered horror stories during power cuts, I would laugh them off and distract myself with books. My faith was always in science, not shadows. But one winter night in Lahore, that belief cracked.

It was exam season. I had been studying late in my rented flat, surrounded by anesthesia textbooks, coffee cups, and scribbled notes. At 2:47 a.m., I got up to splash water on my face. My eyes were dry, my head heavy, and my body begged for sleep.

The bathroom mirror flickered.

At first, I blamed the fluorescent bulb above it, which often buzzed. But then, as I leaned closer, something felt off. My reflection did not mimic me perfectly. My hand rose slower than mine. The blink came a second late.

I froze.

“Sleep deprivation,” I muttered, trying to rationalize. Hallucinations happen when your brain is exhausted. That was the logical answer.

But then my reflection smiled.

I didn’t.

It was not a mischievous smile, not even sinister—just… calm, like someone who knew more than me. My knees weakened. I turned the tap on and splashed water on my face, refusing to look again. I dried my eyes, whispered a prayer, and hurried back to my desk.

But the textbooks had changed.

The page I’d left open about “Airway Management” now had words scribbled in neat handwriting:

“You can’t run from yourself.”

The pen on my desk hadn’t moved. My hands shook as I flipped the pages. The rest were blank—pure white sheets where medical diagrams should have been.

I felt an electric chill run across my skin. My room was no longer mine.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from the bathroom. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer.

I wanted to leave, but my body betrayed me. My legs wouldn’t move, as if the air itself weighed me down.

And then he walked out.

It was me. My own body, my own face—but sharper, more alive, more confident. His eyes had a brightness mine lacked. He glanced at my desk, then at me, and whispered:

“You’ve wasted too much time. Now it’s my turn.”

I stammered, “W-what are you?”

He tilted his head, amused. “I’m the version of you who doesn’t waste life doubting, scrolling, fearing. The one who dares. You buried me in routine and excuses. But tonight, you opened the door.”

My mind raced between fear and fascination. Was this a ghost? A hallucination? A psychological fracture? Or had I accidentally invited something darker—the self I never wanted to meet?

He circled me slowly, as if measuring every weakness I carried. I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing on me, heavier than any nightmare. His presence wasn’t just frightening—it was magnetic, like part of me wanted him to take over. That terrified me more than his words.

But before I could react, he walked toward the door. Calm, steady. When he opened it, a cold wind rushed inside, rattling the window panes. He turned back once, and with that same eerie smile said:

“Live carefully, because now—only one of us belongs here.”

Then he left.

I ran after him, but when I opened the door, the corridor was empty. Silent.

I searched all night. The neighbors hadn’t seen anyone. The guard swore no one had left the building. And yet, when I returned to my flat, the mirror was empty. Completely blank. No reflection at all.

Since that night, I’ve lived differently. I laugh less, study harder, and watch every step I take. Because somewhere, in some corner of this city, my other self is living the life I should have lived—and I don’t know when he’ll come back to claim what’s his.