When the Mirror Forgets Your Face

The first time the mirror forgot me, I thought it was a trick of the light.

I’d come home from a long shift at the bookstore, my hair damp from a sudden autumn storm, my bones carrying the heaviness of rain. The apartment was dark except for the faint orange streetlight bleeding through the kitchen blinds. I didn’t bother turning anything on—just headed to the bathroom, kicked the door shut, and reached for the sink.

When I looked up, the glass didn’t show me.

No faint outline. No glint in the eye. Just a depthless, solid black.

I leaned closer, waiting for the hall light to catch the curve of my cheek or the shine of my wet hair. Instead, the darkness moved.

It rippled, as though the mirror’s surface was water and something beneath it had stirred. A pale blur emerged—not a face, exactly, but something that could be mistaken for one in the wrong light.

My chest tightened.

The bathroom light snapped on with a pop as I hit the switch. My reflection returned instantly, blinking back at me, lips parted in the same half-terrified way.

I told myself I’d imagined it. That I’d been staring too long into shadows and given them permission to become something else.


---

The second time was worse.

Two nights later, I caught the thing smiling at me from inside the glass.

It wasn’t my smile.

I was brushing my teeth, watching my own hands work automatically, when the reflection hesitated. Just a flicker—barely a second. My mouth on the other side of the mirror twitched upward in a slow, crooked grin, even though I was standing still.

I dropped the toothbrush.

The grin widened, too wide, until the lips looked ready to split. And then it stopped, returning to perfect mimicry, as if nothing had happened.

That night, I covered the mirror with an old sheet.


---

Three days later, I woke to a dripping sound.

It was steady and deliberate, like the kind of leaky faucet that waits until the house is silent to announce itself. I padded barefoot to the bathroom.

The sheet was gone.

The mirror stood uncovered, its edges beaded with moisture that trickled down to the sink. The air smelled like pond water—stagnant, metallic.

Something was pressing against the inside of the glass.

It was a hand—skin white and wrinkled, nails cracked and rimmed in black. It left long, wet streaks as it dragged its fingers down, slow enough that I could hear the squeak of skin on glass.

My breath fogged the surface.

I don’t know why I spoke, but I did. “What are you?”

The glass pulsed, a ripple radiating outward as though my words had been dropped into it like a stone. And then the thing leaned closer, until only the faint blur of its face filled the mirror.

Its features were wrong—soft where they should be sharp, blurred where they should be clear. I could barely make out the eyes, but I knew they were fixed on me.

Its mouth moved.

The sound came from mine.

“You were supposed to be me.”


---

I woke on the bathroom floor. The mirror was dry, reflecting only my own wide-eyed face. But the smell of pond water clung to the air, and my skin prickled with the memory of cold glass.

I should have smashed it then. Instead, I left the bathroom and closed the door.

The next morning, the mirror was gone.

Not broken. Not stolen. Gone. The wall where it had hung was bare plaster, smooth and unblemished, as if no mirror had ever been there.

I tried to breathe, to convince myself it was over. But that night, I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my television—and it didn’t blink when I did.


---

Now, every reflective surface feels wrong.

The back of a spoon shows my mouth moving half a beat late. My phone’s selfie camera sometimes freezes while I’m still smiling, holding an expression I’m no longer making. Storefront windows flicker with shapes standing just behind my shoulder.

I don’t know what the thing is. I don’t know if it’s one thing or many. I only know it’s watching, learning, practicing.

And I think—no, I’m sure—it’s getting better at being me.

If you ever notice your reflection acting strangely, look away. Don’t let it know you’ve seen the difference. Because once it realizes you’ve noticed…

…it will try to take your place.