"The Voice in the Mirror"

It began on an ordinary Thursday night. Ali, a 22-year-old university student in Karachi, stood brushing his teeth when something strange caught his eye. His reflection didn’t quite match his movements. At first, he blamed the flickering light and lack of sleep. But each night, the feeling of something being “off” grew stronger.

Then, one night, the reflection didn’t move at all. Ali blinked. The image blinked half a second later.

And then, it spoke.

“You have only three months left.”

Ali jumped back, knocking over the toothbrush holder. “What the—who are you?”

The reflection tilted its head and replied calmly, “I’m you. Ten years from now.”

Ali stared, heart racing. It looked like him—older, with tired eyes and a deeper voice. He tried to laugh it off, convinced it was a dream or some strange mental glitch.

But it wasn’t a dream. The next night, it spoke again.

“I know how this ends, Ali. And it’s not good.”

Ali began to talk to the mirror every night. The future version of himself gave warnings and advice—some vague, some specific.

“Don’t go to the party next Friday.”
“Say yes to the internship.”
“Your best friend is lying to you.”

Ali tested the advice. One day, he skipped the party—and read in the news that a fight had broken out, leaving someone seriously injured. Another time, he avoided a shady freelance job that could have cost him money and trust.

The mirror’s words started to guide his life. It felt like a gift.

But the warnings became darker.

“If you miss your father’s call tomorrow, you’ll regret it forever.”
“She’s not the one. Let her go.”
“Time is running out.”

Ali tried to keep calm, but the countdown continued.

“Two months left.”
“Six weeks.”
“Thirty days.”

He stopped sleeping. He avoided mirrors. But whenever he accidentally looked into one—at home, in bathrooms, or in his phone camera—the voice returned.

“You can’t outrun fate.”

Ali tried everything: therapy, sleep medication, even a religious scholar. No one believed him.

Then came the final warning.

“Tonight, you’ll face a choice. One path leads to your death. The other… leads to someone else’s.”

That evening, desperate to escape, Ali went for a walk by Clifton beach. He wanted to clear his mind. As he sat by the shore, watching the waves roll in, a young boy playing nearby lost his balance and fell into the water.

People screamed. Without thinking, Ali ran and jumped in. The waves were strong, but he reached the boy and dragged him to safety. The mother cried, thanking him.

But as Ali turned to get back to shore, a wave knocked him against the rocks.

Darkness.

He awoke in a hospital bed the next morning, head bandaged. Alive. Safe.

He looked at the mirror across the room.

No voice.

No future version.

Just him—bruised, but breathing.

For the first time in months, the mirror was still.

Ali smiled.

He realized something then. The voice hadn’t been a curse. It was a reflection of what could be—not what must be. The warnings were possibilities. Not fate. He had lived in fear for months, trying to avoid pain, failure, heartbreak.

But it was his selfless act—risking his life for someone else—that broke the pattern.

He’d made a choice based on courage, not fear.

Now, when he looked in the mirror, he saw only himself. No countdown. No shadowed version whispering warnings. Just a man who survived.

And this time, that was enough.