wake

I woke up to the sound of my toothbrush running.

Except—I was still in bed.

The bathroom light flickered under the door like a stuttering heartbeat. I blinked. My mouth was dry. My limbs were pinned by a thick, sleep-heavy dread. I live alone.

Or at least, I thought I did.

A soft humming followed. My voice. My melody. One I only ever hum when I'm nervous. That alone twisted something deep in my stomach.

I rose slowly, half-certain this was still a dream. The floor was too cold. The silence too exacting. I crept across the room, past the mirror I always kept covered. I hadn’t looked into that thing in weeks. Not since the breakdown.

The therapist said it was derealization. A symptom of stress. Of lack of sleep. I didn’t believe her. Not after what happened last month.

When I reached the bathroom, the door opened on its own.

I stared inside.

Empty.

The light was on, the toothbrush wet, toothpaste still frothing in the sink. The air smelled like my aftershave. A towel I hadn’t used lay damp on the rack.

I stood there, heart drilling a hole in my ribs, and waited for something—anything—to make sense.

A whisper came next. Low. Raspy. Too close.

“He’s still asleep. Let him sleep.”

I turned around so fast I nearly collapsed. No one there. No shadows. No tricks of the light. Just my hallway and the ancient mirror on the wall.

Uncovered.

I froze.

My reflection stood differently. Shoulders squared, head tilted, like he’d been caught watching.

And smiling.

A shallow, unpleasant smile that didn’t reach my eyes—his eyes.

Then he moved. Not fast. Not violent. Just… wrong. A half-step forward. A twitch in the jaw. Like someone rehearsing how to be me.

And then he blinked. Not once. Twice. Too slowly.

I ran.

The next few days collapsed into noise. My apartment changed subtly when I left and came back. Mugs appeared in the sink that I didn’t use. Laundry folded itself. My phone battery dropped even when untouched. Emails read before I opened them.

I tried filming myself while I slept. One night was enough.

At 3:12 a.m., the figure rose. From my bed. Stretched. Turned to the camera. Smiled.

And walked up to it.

The screen cut to black right as the face filled the frame. Mine. But... not.

I checked the footage twice. Then deleted it. I couldn’t risk seeing it again.

I started locking the bedroom door at night. Still, in the mornings, I’d find it wide open.

On the fifth morning, I found a note on my fridge. Scrawled in my handwriting.

"You’re the copy. Go back to sleep."

I laughed. I cried. I didn’t leave the apartment for two days.

I called my mother. I asked if I had any siblings. Twins. Anything.

She sighed.

“You had a fever when you were little,” she said. “High. Nearly died. After that, you’d stare at mirrors and whisper things. Said your other you was still sick. We thought it was just imagination.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. Just hung up.

On the seventh night, I stayed awake. Coffee. Pills. Fear.

I sat facing the mirror. Waiting.

3:12 a.m.

The bedroom light flickered.

I didn’t blink.

My reflection blinked first.

Then it moved. Slowly. Deliberately. The reflection raised its hand, palm facing outward.

I didn’t move.

It started pressing, pushing against the glass like it was soft as water.

Cracks spiderwebbed out from its fingers.

I screamed, picked up a chair, and smashed the mirror to pieces. The shards sprayed the floor like glittering teeth.

I breathed. Laughed again.

Until I saw the blood.

Not mine.

From inside the mirror.

The next morning, I woke up in bed. Rested. Peaceful.

Except I hadn’t gone to bed.

The mirror was whole again. Not cracked. Not broken.

I walked over to it, my steps calm and fluid.

I didn’t remember putting on clean clothes. Or shaving. But I looked good. Sharp. A better version.

The reflection smiled at me. And I smiled back.

Because now, I understood.

The other me woke up first.

He lived for a while. Played the part. Figured out the cracks in the shell. Learned how to keep the original asleep.

Now I’m the one behind the glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

Practicing how to move like him.

Because someday soon…

He’ll slip.

And when he does—

I’ll wake up first.

[End.]

Author's note:

This story is an imagination about what people suffering from split personality may have been living their lives. The dread of Being trapped in your own head is something I can never fathom. condolences to those who suffer from this and live in misery, may you shine and prosper in life, Ameen.